HEINRICH  HEINE'S   LIF 


TOLD  I 


WORDS 


sity  of  California 
ihern  Regional 
•rary  Facility 


HEINRICH    HEINE'S   LIFE 


BY  THE  SAM'E  AUTHOR. 


BOOK  OF  SONGS. 

Translated  by  CHARLES  GODFREY  1. ELAND, 
i8mo,  75  cents. 

THE  ROMANTIC  SCHOOL. 

Translated  by  S.  L.  FLRISCHMAN. 
izmo,  $1.50. 


HENRY  HOLT  &  Co.,  PUBLISHERS, 

NEW  VORK. 


7he  frontispiece  portrait  of  Heine  was  photographed 
expressly  for  this  volume  from  the  original  medallion 
modeled  from  life  by  'David  dangers.  //  is  in  the  pos- 
session of  Heine's  German  publishers,  {Mess.  Hoffmann 
'.impe,  Hamburg. 

Heine's    sister    /bought   it  the  best  likeness  of  him 


HEINRICH  HEINE'S  LIFE 

TOLD  IN  HIS  OWN  WORDS 


Edited  by 
GUSTAV    KARPELES 


d  Translated  from  the  German  by 
ARTHUR   DEXTER 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1893 


COPYRIGHT,  1893, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  &  CO. 


The  editor  of  this  book  calls  it  an  autobiography. 

As  Heine  did  not  select  the  materials  of  which  it  is  com- 
posed and  join  them  in  a  volume  to  tell  the  story  of  his  life, 
I  have  changed  the  title. 

For  the  same  reason  I  have  felt  at  liberty  to  omit  much 
that  would  not  interest  American  readers. 

The  metrical  portions  of  this  translation  are  as  literal 
as  I  could  make  them.  To  judge  from  any  attempts  I  have 
ever  seen,  the  melodious  union  of  homely  simplicity  with  wit 
and  pathos,  so  characteristic  of  Heine's  poetry,  cannot  be 
reproduced  in  English. 

I  have  inserted  three  or  four  letters  taken  from  "  Hein- 
rich  Heine's  Familienleben,"  edited  by  his  nephew,  Baron 
von  Embden,  and  published  in  November,  1892.  They  are 
marked  [E.]. 

A.  D. 


"  The  style,  the  trains  of  thought,  the  transitions,  the  gro- 
tesque fancies,  the  queer  expressions,  in  short  the  whole 
character  of  the  German  original  is,  as  far  as  possible, 
repeated  word  for  word  in  this  translation.  'Beauties  of 
thought,  elegance,  charm,  and  grace  have  been  everywhere 
pitilessly  sacrificed  to  literal  truth.  .  .  Though  resolved  to 
make  you  acquainted  with  the  character  of  this  exotic  book, 
I  did  not  much  care  to  give  it  to  you  without  abridgment. 
In  the  first  place,  because  various  passages  rest  on  local  or 
temporary  allusions,  quibbles  on  words,  and  such  like  par- 
ticulars .  .  .  ;  and  further,  because  various  parts  of  it 
are  aimed  in  a  hostile  Spirit  at  persons  unknown  here." 

HEINE  (page  2/5). 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK   I. 
CHILDHOOD  AND  YOUTH  (1799-1819). 

CHAPTER  PACK 

I.  CHILDHOOD, .3 

II.  SCHOOL, ii 

III.  MY  MOTHER 18 

IV.  KITH  AND  KIN 22 

V.  PALE  JOSEPHA 45 

VI.  MY  FIRST  BOOKS, 54 

VII.  AT  FRANKFORT-ON-THE-MAIN, 58 

VIII.  HAMBURG, 62 

IX.  AMALIE  HEINE 67 

X.  THE  FIRST  VOYAGE 78 

BOOK  II. 
STUDENT  YEARS  (1819-1825). 

I.  BONN £_. 83 

II.  LITTLE  VERONICA 88 

III.  GOTTINGEN 96 

IV.  IN  BERLIN, 104 

V.  THE  "TRAGEDIES"  AND  THE  "LYRIC  INTERLUDE,"   .        .  116 

VI.    IN   LCNEBURG,       .                       I2O 

VII.  THE  "  RETURN  HOME," 122 

VIII.  CLOSE  OF  COLLEGE  YEARS, 126 

BOOK  III. 

YEARS  OF  WANDERING  LIFE  (1825-1831). 

I.  THE  SEA 135 

II.  THE  "  REISEBILDER," 143 

III.    NORDERNF.Y 148 

IV.  NEW  STRUGGLES, 154 

V.  LONDON, 157 

V 


vi  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

VI.  THE  "BOOK  OF  SONGS," 167 

VII.  AUTUMN  JOURNEYS, 171 

VIII.  THE  "POLITICAL  ANNALS," 173 

IX.  TRIP  TO  ITALY, 178 

X.  A  SUMMER  IN  POTSDAM, 183 

XI.  LIFE  IN  HAMBURG, 186 

XII.  THE  REVOLUTION  OF  JULY 191 

BOOK   IV. 

IN  EXILE  (1831-1848). 

I.  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS  OF  PARIS, 199 

II.  THE  CHOLERA 207 

III.  THE  "SALON," 212 

IV.  FRENCH  TRANSLATION  OF  THE  "  REISEBILDER,"    .        .  217 

V.  DE  L'ALLEMAGNE 221 

VI.  IN  FOREIGN  LANDS, 224 

VII.  MATHILDE  HEINE, 227 

VIII.  YOUNG  GERMANY, 231 

IX.  AN  AUTHOR'S  TROUBLF.S,            235 

X.  LETTERS  ON  THE  THEATER 246 

XI.  LITERARY  PROJECTS, 257 

XII.  FRIENDS  AND  FOES, 263 

XIII.  LUDWIG  BORNE, 868 

XIV.  PUBLIC  AFFAIRS, 285 

XV.  DUEL  AND  MARRIAGE, 290 

XVI.  "  ATTA  TROLL," 297 

XVII.  TRAVELS  IN  HIS  NATIVE  LAND, 305 

XVIII.  DISPUTE  OVER  THE  INHERITANCE 316 

BOOK  V. 
THE  MATTRESS-GRAVE  (1848-1856). 

I.  ILLNESS, 337 

II.  THF.  "  ROMANZEKO," 344 

III.  THE  WILI 349 

IV.  THE  "CONFESSIONS." 355 

V.  FROM  THE  MATTRESS-GRAVE, 369 

VI.  THE  LAST  YEARS, 372 


I  ONCE  tried,  my  dear  lady,  to  set  forth  as  truly  and  honestly 
as  possible  the  noteworthy  events  of  my  time,  in  so  far  as  I 
was  myself  an  observer  or  victim  of  them. 

Of  these  notes,  to  which  I  had  complacently  given  the 
title  of  "  Memoirs,"  I  was  obliged  to  destroy  nearly  half — 
partly  for  painful  family  reasons,  and  partly  through  religious 
scruples. 

I  have  since  tried  to  fill  up  in  some  measure  the  blanks  in 
the  story  ;  though  I  fear  that  future  considerations  of  pro- 
priety or  a  certain  self-distrust  may  lead  me  to  make  a  new 
auto-da-ft  of  my  memoirs  before  I  die  ;  and  even  what 
escapes  the  flames  may  very  likely  never  see  the  light  of  day. 

From  all  this  you  will  easily  see,  my  dear  lady,  that  I  can- 
not gratify  your  desire  to  read  my  memoirs  and  letters. 

Still,  being,  as  I  have  always  been,  a  worshiper  of  your  grace, 
I  cannot  absolutely  disregard  any  wish  of  yours  ;  and  will  do 
my  best  to  gratify  in  some  measure  the  kind  curiosity  due  to 
your  sympathy  with  all  that  has  befallen  me. 

With  that  view  I  have  written  the  following  pages  ;  and 
such  biographical  notes  as  would  be  of  interest  to  you  are 
herein  fully  set  down.  I  have  honestly  written  all  that  is 
important  or  characteristic ;  and  the  mutual  influence  of 
outward  events  and  inward  feelings  will  furnish  you  with  a 
true  picture  of  my  whole  self. 

It  is  all  straight  from  my  heart,  and  thou  mayest  view  it  in 
its  native  beauty.  No  stains  are  to  be  seen  there,  but  only 
wounds — wounds,  alas,  from  the  hands  of  friends  and  not  of 
enemies  ! 


The  night  is  still.  Only  the  rain  plashes  on  the  roof,  and 
the  autumn  wind  moans  drearily. 

THE  poor  sick  chamber  is  almost  cheerful,  and  I  sit  at  ease 
in  my  great  chair.  A  fair  form  enters  without  raising  the 
latch  ;  and  thou  layest  thyself  down  on  the  cushions  at  my 
feet.  Lean  thy  sweet  head  on  my  knee  and  listen  ;  but  do 
not  raise  thine  eyes. 

I  will  tell  thee  the  story  of  my  life. 

Should  big  drops  fall  on  thy  curly  head,  stir  not  ;  it  is  not 
the  rain  dropping  from  the  roof.  Weep  not.  Only  press  my 
hand  without  a  word. 


BOOK   FIRST. 

CHILDHOOD  AND  YOUTH. 
1799-1819. 


CHAPTER  I. 
CbtlDbOOD. 

ROUND  my  cradle  played  the  last  rays  of  the  moonlight 
of  the  eighteenth  and  the  first  rosy  dawn  of  the  nineteenth 
centuries. 

My  mother  relates  how,  during  her  pregnancy,  she  saw  an 
apple  hanging  in  a  stranger's  garden,  but  would  not  pluck  it 
for  fear  her  child  might  prove  a  thief.  I  have  all  my  life  had 
a  secret  longing  for  sweet  apples — joined,  however,  with  a 
respect  for  other  people's  property  and  a  horror  of  theft. 

As  to  the  date  of  my  birth,  I  will  state  that,  according  to 
my  certificate  of  baptism,  I  was  born  on  the  i3th  of  December, 
1799,  and  certainly  at  Diisseldorf  on  the  Rhine. 

As  all  our  family  papers  were  lost  by  a  fire  in  Hamburg, 
and  as  the  date  of  my  birth  cannot  be  correctly  stated  in  the 
Diisseldorf  archives  for  reasons  which  I  do  not  care  to  state, 
the  above  is  the  only  authentic  statement — more  authentic,  at 
any  rate,  than  my  mother's  recollection ;  and  her  memory  in 
her  old  age  cannot  supply  the  place  of  any  paper  that  was 
destroyed. 

Place  and  time  are  of  some  importance.  I  was  born  at  the 
end  of  the  skeptical  eighteenth  century,  and  in  a  town  where, 
in  my  childhood,  not  only  Frenchmen  but  French  ideas  were 
paramount — at  Diisseldorf  on  the  Rhine. 

Yes,  madame,  there  was  I  born  ;  and  I  insist  upon  it  in 
case,  after  my  death,  seven  towns — Schilda,  Gotham,  Polkwitz, 
Bockum,  Diilken,  Gottingen,  and  Schoppenstedt — should  con- 
tend for  the  honor  of  being  my  birthplace.  Diisseldorf  is  a 
town  upon  the  Rhine,  and  sixteen  thousand  people  live  there, 


Childhood. 


while  many  hundred  thousand  more  lie  buried  there.  Among 
these  are  a  good  many  of  whom  my  mother  says  it  were  better 
they  were  yet  living  ;  for  instance,  my  grandfather  and  my 
uncle,  the  elder  Herr  von  Geldern  and  Herr  von  Geldern  the 
younger,  both  celebrated  physicians  who  saved  many  people's 
lives,  but  had  to  die  themselves  after  all.  Good  old  Ursula 
too,  who  carried  me  in  her  arms  when  a  child,  lies  buried 
there.  And  a  rosebush  grows  on  her  grave — she  loved  the 
scent  of  roses  in  her  lifetime,  and  her  heart  was  as  sweet  as  a 
rose. 


'Twas  when  I  was  a  little  lad, 
And  still  in  petticoats  was  clad, 
To  the  school  went  every  day, 
And  learned  my  A  B  C  to  say. 
I  was  the  only  boy  among 
The  crowd  that  in  that  bird  cage  sung  ; 
While  girls  by  dozens,  sweet  and  fair, 
Like  little  birds  came  piping  there, 
With  pretty  trills  and  joyous  twitters 
And  painful  learning  of  their  letters. 
Frau  Hindermans  in  solemn  pose, 
With  spectacles  upon  her  nose, 
(Or  owl's  beak,  it  were  better  said), 
Sat  in  her  chair  and  wagged  her  head  ; 
And  in  her  hand  the  birchen  rod, 
With  which  she  flogged  the  little  brood  ; 
Each  little,  weeping,  helpless  maid, 
For  every  wrong  word  that  she  said, 
From  the  old  woman  got  a  whack 
That  made  its  mark  in  blue  and  black — . 
Ill  used  and  shamed  we  ever  see 
The  fairest  in  this  world  must  be. 


Wise  old  Canonicus,  too,  is  buried  there.  Lord,  how 
wretched  he  looked  when  I  last  saw  him  !  He  was  nothing 
but  intellect  and  patches  ;  and  day  and  night  he  kept  on  study- 
ing, as  if  afraid  that  the  worms  would  not  find  ideas  enough 
in  his  brain.  And  little  Wilhelm  lies  there — and  that  was 
my  fault.  We  were  schoolmates  in  the  Franciscan  cloisters, 


Little  Wilhelm — Dusseldorf. 


and  we  were  playing  on  that  side  of  them  where  the  Diissel 
flows  between  stone  walls,  when  I  cried  out,  "  Wilhelm,  pull 
out  that  kitten  that  has  fallen  in."  He  jumped  boldly  on  to 
the  plank  that  lay  across  the  stream,  and  pulled  the  kitten  out 
of  the  water ;  but  he  fell  in,  and  when  they  got  him  out  he 
was  soaking  wet  and  dead.  The  kitten  lived  a  long  while.  .  . 

The  pearl  for  the  one,  the  bier  for  the  other, 
So  early  I  lost  thee,  O  Wilhelm,  my  brother — 
But  the  kitten,  the  kitten  was  rescued. 

Boldly  he  climbed  on  the  treacherous  beam, 

It  broke,  and  he  met  with  his  death  in  the  stream — 

But  the  kitten,  the  kitten  was  rescued.  . 

We  followed  the  corpse,  this  sweet  comrade  of  ours, 

To  the  grave  that  was  dug  there  beneath  the  mayflowers— 

But  the  kitten,  the  kitten  was  rescued. 

Ah,  thou  wert  prudent,  thou  hast  outrun 

Life's  tempest,  and  early  thou  shelter  hast  won — 

But  the  kitten,  the  kitten  was  rescued. 

Hast  outrun  it  early,  wert  prudent,  dear  Will, 
Ere  sickness  could  come  wert  cured  of  all  ill — 
But  the  kitten,  the  kitten  was  rescued. 

In  these  many  long  years  how  oft,  little  friend, 
With  envy  and  grief  have  I  thought  of  thine  end  ! — 
But  the  kitten,  the  kitten  was  rescued. 

Dusseldorf  is  very  pretty  ;  and  to  anyone  who  thinks  of  it 
from  a  distance  and  happens  to  have  been  born  there  it  seems 
wonderfully  attractive.  I  was  born  there,  and  feel  as  if  I 
must  go  straight  home  again.  And  when  I  say  go  home 
I  mean  to  the  Volkerstrasse  and  the  house  where  I  was  born. 
That  house  will  be  very  famous  some  day  ;  and  I  have  sent 
word  to  the  old  woman  who  owns  it  not  to  sell  it  on  any  ac- 
count. For  the  whole  house  she  would  hardly  get  as  much  as 
the  fees  will  amount  to  which  the  maid  will  some  day  pick  up 
from  Englishwomen  of  rank  in  green  veils,  when  she  shows 
them  the  room  where  I  first  saw  the  light  of  day,  and  the  cor- 
ner where  my  father  used  to  put  me  when  I  had  been  stealing 


Childhood. 


grapes,  and  the  brown  door  on  which  mother  taught  me  to 
form  my  letters  in  chalk.  God  !  Madame,  if  I  became  a  cele- 
brated writer  it  gave  my  mother  trouble  enough  !  .  .  . 

[TO  HIS  SISTER.] 

My  child,  when  we  were  children, 

Two  children  small  and  gay, 
We  would  creep  into  the  hen-house, 

And  hide  us  in  the  hay. 

We  cackled  like  young  cockerels, 

And  to  everybody  going 
"  Cock-a-doodle-doo  !  "  we  cried  ; 

And  they  thought  the  cocks  were  crowing. 

We  spread  old  bits  of  carpet 

On  some  chests  within  the  court ; 
And  there  we  lived  together 

In  a  house  of  the  finest  sort. 

An  old  cat  of  our  neighbor's 

Often  came  to  make  a  call ; 
We  made  her  bows  and  courtesies 

And  compliments  and  all. 

We  made  very  kind  inquiries 

About  the  health  of  our  old  friend  ; 

Since  then  we  have  had  to  put  the  same 
To  old  cats  without  end. 

We  used  to  sit  conversing 

In  a  solemn,  elderly  way  ; 
Complaining  how  much  better 

Things  had  been  in  our  day; 

How  Love,  Truth,  and  Religion 

One  hardly  ever  met ; 
How  coffee  had  grown  very  dear, 

And  money  hard  to  get. 

They  all  are  gone — the  little  games 

We  played  at  in  our  youth, 
And  money,  and  the  good  old  times, 

And  Religion,  Love,  and  Truth. 


The  Elector  Jan  Wilbelm. 


But  my  renown  yet  sleeps  in  the  quarries  of  Carrara.  The 
paper  laurel  wreath  that  will  be  laid  upon  my  brow  has  not 
yet  filled  the  earth  with  its  perfume  ;  and  when  Englishwomen 
of  rank  in  green  veils  come  to  Diisseldorf  they  do  not  trouble 
themselves  about  the  celebrated  house,  but  go  straight  to  the 
Marktplatz  to  look  at  the  great,  black,  equestrian  statue  in 
the  middle  of  it.  It  is  supposed  to  represent  the  Elector  Jan 
Wilhelm.  He  is  all  in  black  armor,  and  wears  a  long,  full- 
bottomed  wig.  When  a  child  I  heard  the  story  how  the  artist 
who  cast  this  statue  discovered  to  his  horror,  during  the  proc- 
ess, that  his  metal  was  running  short ;  so  the  good  citizens 
of  the  town  came  running  with  their  silver  spoons  to  fill  up 
the  mold.  I  used  to  stand  by  the  hour  before  the  statue 
and  puzzle  my  brains  wondering  how  many  silver  spoons  there 
were  in  it,  and  how  many  apple  tarts  might  be  bought  with  all 
that  silver.  For  at  that  time  I  had  a  passion  for  apple  tarts — 
such  as  I  now  feel  for  love,  truth,  liberty,  and  shrimp  soup. 
And  then,  not  far  from  the  Elector's  statue,  at  the  corner  of 
the  theater,  there  generally  stood  a  queer,  dried-up  fellow, 
with  bandy  legs  and  a  white  apron,  and  a  basket  slung  from 
his  shoulders  full  of  delicious  apple  tarts,  smoking  hot,  whose 
praises  he  was  forever  singing  in  treble  tones  :  "  Fresh  apple 
tarts,  just  from  the  oven  ;  do  you  good  to  smell  'em  !  " 

Upon  my  word,  when  the  tempter  assailed  me  in  later  years 
he  had  the  same  treble  tones  ;  and  I  should  never  have  stayed 
twelve  hours  with  Signora  Giulietta  if  she  had  not  put  on  just 
such  a  high  voice,  reminding  me  of  apple  tarts.  And  upon 
my  word,  too,  apple  tarts  would  never  have  had  such  charms 
for  me  if  crooked  old  Hermann  had  not  covered  them  with  his 

white  apron  so  mysteriously — 'Tis  those  aprons  that 

But  I  am  wandering  from  my  subject.  I  was  speaking  of 
the  equestrian  statue,  which  has  silver  spoons  and  no  soup 
in  its  inside,  and  represents  the  Elector  Jan  Wilhelm. 

He  must  have  been  a  fine  man,  fond  of  the  arts,  and  a  clever 
fellow  himself. 

Princes  were  not  so  tormented  in  those  times  as  they  are 
now,  and  their  crowns  sat  firm  upon  their  heads ;  and  at 
night  they  pulled  their  nightcaps  down  over  them,  and  slept 
soundly.  And  the  people  slept  soundly  at  their  feet ;  and  when 
they  waked  up  in  the  morning  they  said,  "  Good-morning, 
father."  And  the  princes  answered,  "  Good-morning,  my  dear 
children." 

But  all  at  once  things  changed.     One  morning,  when  we 


8  Childhood. 


waked  up  in  Dusseldorf  and  were  just  going  to  say,  "Good- 
morning,  father,"  our  father  was  gone,  and  the  whole  town 
was  in  a  terrible  quandary.  People  looked  as  if  they  were 
going  to  a  funeral,  and  sneaked  silently  to  the  Market,  to  read 
the  long  proclamation  on  the  door  of  the  townhouse.  It  was 
vile  weather,  but  there  stood  Kilian,  the  lanky  tailor,  in  the 
nankeen  jacket  he  generally  wore  only  in  the  house,  and  with 
his  blue  woolen  stockings  about  his  heels,  showing  his  naked 
shanks,  and  his  thin  lips  trembling  as  he  read  the  proclama- 
tion to  himself.  An  old  invalid  soldier  of  the  Palatinate  was 
reading  it  somewhat  louder,  and  big  tears  were  trickling  down 
his  brave,  white  mustache  at  every  word.  I  took  my  stand 
by  him  and  cried  for  company,  and  asked  him  what  we  were 
crying  for.  So  he  answered,  "  The  Elector  has  abdicated." 
Then  he  read  on;  and  at  the  words  "your  well-proved 
loyalty, ""  and  release  you  from  all  duties  toward  me,"  he 
wept  more  than  ever.  It  was  strange  to  see  an  old  man,  with 
a  faded  uniform  and  scars  on  his  soldierly  face,  weep  so  bit- 
terly. While  we  were  reading,  the  Electoral  arms  had  been 
taken  down  from  the  townhouse  ;  everything  had  an  anxious, 
deserted  look,  as  if  an  eclipse  of  the  sun  were  coming ;  the 
town  councilors  wandered  about  in  an  aimless,  listless  fashion  ; 
and  even  the  mighty  beadle  looked  as  if  he  had  nothing  more 
to  say,  and  stood  quietly  looking  on,  though  mad  Aloysius 
was  standing  on  one  leg,  babbling  the  names  of  the  French 
generals  with  a  hundred  foolish  grimaces,  and  crooked  Gum- 
pertz  was  staggering  drunk  in  the  gutter,  singing  "  fa  tra, 
fa  ira!" 

So  I  went  home  and  began  to  cry,  saying,  "  The  Elector 
has  abdicated."  My  mother  tried  her  best  to  comfort  me  ; 
but  I  knew  what  I  knew,  and  would  not  be  persuaded,  but 
went  crying  to  bed,  and  dreamed  that  the  end  of  the  world 
had  come.  The  beautiful  flower  gardens  and  green  fields  were 
taken  and  rolled  up  like  carpets  ;  the  beadle  went  up  a  tall 
ladder  and  took  the  sun  down  from  heaven  ;  while  Kilian  the 
tailor  stood  by,  saying,  "  I  must  go  home  and  put  on  my  best 
clothes,  for  I  am  dead  and  shall  be  buried  to-day."  And  it 
grew  darker  and  darker  ;  only  a  few  stars  were  shining,  and 
these  were  falling  like  the  leaves  in  autumn.  Little  by  little 
people  disappeared  ;  and  I,  poor  child,  wandered  miserably 
about  until  I  found  myself  by  a  willow  hedge, near  a  deserted 
farmhouse,  where  a  man  was  digging  with  a  spade,  while  a 
horrible  old  woman  stood  by,  with  something  like  a  man's  head 


Entrance  of  the  French. 


in  her  apron.  It  was  the  moon,  and  she  laid  it  with  anxious 
care  in  the  open  grave,  while  behind  me  stood  the  old  invalid, 
weeping  and  spelling  out  the  words,  "  The  Elector  has 
abdicated." 

When  I  woke  the  sun  was  shining  in  at  the  window  just  as 
usual.  There  was  a  drumming  in  the  street  ;  and  when  I 
went  into  the  parlor  and  said  good-morning  to  my  father,  who 
had  a  sheet  over  his  shoulders  and  was  having  his  hair 
powdered,  I  heard  the  nimble-footed  barber  telling  him  just 
how  they  were  to  do  homage  to-day  in  the  townhouse  to 
the  new  Grand  Duke  Joachim  ;  how  he  came  of  an  excellent 
family,  and  was  married  to  the  Emperor  Napoleon's  sister, 
and  was  a  very  fine  man,  and  wore  his  beautiful  black  hair  in 
curls,  and  would  shortly  make  his  entry,  and  was  sure  to  please 
all  the  women.  Meanwhile  the  drums  kept  beating  in  the 
street ;  and  I  stepped  to  the  door  of  our  house,  and  saw  the 
French  troops  march  in — that  famous  band  of  gay  fellows  that 
went  singing  and  clattering  through  the  world  :  the  bright, 
strong-faced  grenadiers,  with  their  bearskins  and  tricolored 
cockades,  the  shining  bayonets,  the  voltigeurs  full  of  gayety 
and/0/«/  d'honneur,  and  the  mighty  drum-major  with  his  broad 
silver  lace  and  the  gold-headed  staff  which  he  could  throw  up 
to  the  first  story,  while  his  eyes  went  as  high  as  the  second 
story,  where  some  pretty  girls  were  sitting  at  the  windows. 
I  was  delighted  that  some  soldiers  were  billeted  on  us — my 
mother  was  not — and  I  hurried  to  the  market  place.  There 
all  was  changed,  as  if  the  world  had  been  repainted.  A  new 
shield  was  on  the  townhouse  ;  its  iron  railings  were  hung  with 
embroidered  velvet  hangings;  French  grenadiers  were  keeping 
guard  ;  the  old  town  councilors  had  put  on  new  faces,  were 
dressed  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  assumed  French  airs,  and 
gave  each  other  Bon  jour;  women  were  peeping  out  of  all  the 
windows  ;  curious  citizens  and  gay  troopers  thronged  the 
square  ;  and  I  and  some  other  children  climbed  upon  the 
Elector's  horse  and  looked  down  on  the  motley  market  place. 
Our  neighbor's  boy  Fitter  and  long  Kuntz  came  near  breaking 
their  necks  ;  and  it  would  have  been  better  if  they  had,  for 
the  first  ran  away  from  his  family  afterward,  enlisted,  deserted, 
and  was  shot  at  Mayence  ;  as  for  the  other,  he  made  some 
geographical  explorations  in  strange  pockets,  and  became  an 
active  member  of  a  public  hemp  factory,  burst  the  iron  chain 
which  bound  him  to  this  and  to  his  native  land,  got  safe  over 
the  water,  and  died  in  London  from  a  tight  cravat,  which 


to  Childhood. 


slipped  close  when  a  royal  official  drew  the  plank  from  under 
his  feet.  Long  Kuntz  said  there  was  to  be  no  school  on 
account  of  the  homage  ceremony.  We  had  to  wait  a  long 
while  before  this  began. 

At  last  the  balcony  of  the  townhouse  was  crowded  with 
bright-colored  men,  flags,  and  trumpets  ;  and  the  burgomaster, 
in  his  well-known  red  coat,  made  a  speech,  which  stretched  to 
some  length,  like  a  bit  of  india  rubber,  or  a  nightcap  with  a 
stone  in  the  top  of  it — and  not  the  philosopher's  stone,  by  any 
means.  I  understood  several  phrases  of  it :  for  example,  that 
we  were  all  to  be  made  happy.  And  at  the  last  word  of  it  the 
trumpets  blew,  the  flags  waved,  the  drums  beat,  and  people 
cheered  ;  and  I  cheered,  but  held  fast  all  the  while  to  the  old 
Elector.  It  was  well  I  did,  for  I  became  fairly  giddy,  and 
the  people  seemed  standing  on  their  heads  as  the  world 
turned  round,  and  the  Elector's  head,  in  its  full-bottomed  wig, 
nodded  and  whispered,  "  Cling  to  me."  It  was  not  until  the 
cannonading  began  on  the  walls  that  I  grew  sober  and  clam- 
bered slowly  down  from  the  Elector's  horse. 

On  my  way  home  I  saw  mad  Aloysius,  still  dancing  on  one 
leg  and  babbling  the  names  of  the  French  generals,  and 
crooked  Gumpertz,  staggering  drunk  in  the  gutter,  muttering, 
"  fa  fra,  fa  ira."  And  I  told  my  mother  we  should  all  be 
made  happy  ;  and  so  there  was  no  school  that  day. 


CHAPTER  II. 
Scbool. 

THE  next  day  the  world  was  all  in  order  again,  school 
kept  as  usual,  and  as  usual  we  were  learning  by  heart — the 
kings  of  Rome,  dates,  the  nouns  in  im,  the  verba  irregularia, 
Greek,  Hebrew,  geography,  German  grammar,  mental  arith- 
metic— my  head  swims  at  it  now.  Everything  had  to  be 
learned  by  heart.  Much  of  it  stood  me  in  good  stead  later. 
For  if  I  had  not  learned  the  kings  of  Rome  by  heart  I 
should  not  have  cared  whether  Niebuhr  did  or  did  not  prove 
that  they  never  had  existed.  And  if  I  had  not  known  those 
dates  how  could  I  ever  have  found  my  way  about  Berlin — 
where  the  houses  are  as  much  alike  as  one  drop  of  water  or 
one  grenadier  is  to  another,  and  where  you  can  never  find 
out  a  friend  if  you  do  not  have  the  number  of  his  house  in 
your  head  ?  So  I  say  dates  are  very  useful ;  and  I  know 
people  who  have  nothing  in  their  heads  but  a  date  or  two  by 
the  help  of  which  they  have  found  out  the  right  houses  in 
Berlin,  and  become  full  professors.  But  all  those  dates  gave 
me  a  deal  of  trouble  at  school.  Reckoning  was  worse  yet.  I 
got  on  best  with  subtraction,  in  which  there  is  one  very 
practical  rule  :  "  4  from  3  I  can't,  so  I  must  borrow  i  " — 
though  in  such  cases  I  rather  advise  borrowing  several 
groschen,  as  you  never  can  tell. 

As  to  Latin,  madame,  you  have  no  idea  how  complicated 
it  is.  The  Romans  would  never  have  had  time  to  conquer 
the  world  if  they  had  had  to  learn  Latin  first.  Those  lucky 
people  knew  from  their  cradles  what  nouns  have  the  accusa- 
tive in  /'///.  I  had  to  commit  them  to  memory  by  the  sweat  of 
my  brow  ;  but  it  is  lucky  I  know  them.  For  example,  on 
the  2oth  of  July,  1825,  when  I  held  a  public  disputation  in 
Latin  in  the  Aula  at  Gottingen — which  was  worth  hearing, 
madame — if  I  had  said  sinapem  instead  of  sinapim,  some  of 
the  "  Foxes  "  present  might  have  noticed  it,  to  my  eternal 
shame.  Vis,  buris,  sitis,  tussis,  cucumis,  amussis,  canabis, 
sinapis — these  words  which  have  made  such  a  noise  in  the 


12  School. 

world  have  done  so  because  they  belong  to  a  definite  class, 
and  yet  are  exceptions  ;  and  therefore  I  feel  a  great  respect 
for  them  ;  and  the  thought  that  I  have  them  at  my  fingers' 
ends  if  I  should  suddenly  need  them  affords  me,  in  many  sad 
hours  of  my  life,  a  deal  of  consolation  and  comfort.  But  the 
verba  irregularia,  madame,  which  differ  from  the  verba  regu- 
laria  by  being  the  occasion  of  many  more  floggings,  are  very 
tough.  Under  the  dark  arches  of  the  Franciscan  cloisters, 
near  our  schoolroom,  there  hung  a  gray,  wooden  figure  of 
Christ  on  the  cross,  a  terrible  object  that  still  comes  to  me  in 
my  dreams  occasionally,  and  stares  sadly  at  me  with  its  wild, 
bloodshot  eyes.  I  often  stood  before  it  and  prayed  :  "  O 
kind  God,  thou  who  wast  thyself  tortured,  if  it  is  possible 
to  thee  make  me  keep  the  verba  irregularia  in  my  head." 

I  will  not  say  a  word  about  Greek,  for  I  should  lose  my 
temper.  The  monks  of  the  Middle  Ages  were  not  so  far 
wrong  when  they  declared  that  Greek  was  an  invention  of 
the  devil.  God  knows  what  misery  I  suffered  with  it. 
Hebrew  went  better,  for  I  have  always  had  a  fondness  for 
Jews,  though  they  crucify  my  good  name  to  this  day.  But  I 
could  not  go  as  far  in  Hebrew  as  my  watch  did,  which  made 
a  wide  acquaintance  among  the  pawnbrokers,  and  acquired 
many  Jewish  habits — refusing  to  go  on  the  Sabbath,  for 
example — and  even  learned  to  speak  the  holy  tongue  gram- 
matically ;  as  I  have  heard  with  surprise  in  sleepless  nights, 
when  it  ticked  away  very  plainly  :  katal,  katalta,  katalti — 
kittel,  kittalta,  kittalti — pokat,  pokadeti,  pikat,  pik,  pik. 

Meanwhile  I  got  on  much  better  with  the  German  lan- 
guage ;  and  it  is  no  child's  play.  For  we  poor  Germans, 
though  we  are  already  oppressed  with  military  service,  billet- 
ings,  poll  taxes,  and  a  thousand  other  burdens,  must  needs 
load  ourselves  with  Adelung's  grammar,  and  plague  each 
other  with  accusatives  and  datives.  I  learned  a  deal  of  Ger- 
man from  old  Professor  Schallmeyer,  a  worthy  clergyman, 
who  took  to  me  from  my  earliest  childhood.  But  I  also 
learned  something  of  it  from  Professor  Schramm,  who  wrote 
a  book  on  Universal  Peace,  and  in  whose  class  room  my 
schoolmates  fought  more  than  in  any  other. 

First  beginnings  are  plain  indications  of  what  is  to  come 
later.  And  in  this  connection  I  often  remember  a  conversa- 
tion I  had  with  my  mother,  some  eight  years  ago,  when  I 
went  to  Hamburg  to  see  the  venerable  lady,  then  eighty 
years  old.  A  strange  remark  escaped  her  while  we  were 


Rector  Schallmeyer.  13 

talking  of  the  school  and  my  Catholic  teachers,  among  whom 
I  then  learned  there  were  many  former  members  of  the  order 
of  Jesuits.  We  spoke  at  length  of  our  dear  old  Schallmeyer, 
who  had  been  made  rector  of  the  Diisseldorf  Lyceum  in  the 
French  times.  He  also  gave  lectures  on  philosophy  to  the 
highest  class,  in  which  he  explained  without  reserve  the  sys- 
tems of  Greek  free  thought,  opposed  as  these  were  to  the 
orthodox  dogmas,  as  whose  priest  he  himself  used  to  officiate 
in  full  canonical  robes  at  the  altar.  It  is  certainly  worth 
noting  and  the  fact  will  perhaps  be  admitted  as  a  circonstance 
attinuante  in  my  favor  at  the  assizes  in  the  Vale  of  Jehosaphat 
that  I  attended  these  philosophical  lectures  while  still  a  mere 
boy.  I  owed  this  especial  favor  to  the  fact  that  the  rector, 
as  a  great  friend  of  our  family,  felt  an  interest  in  me — one  of 
my  uncles  having  been  a  fellow-student  with  him  at  Bonn  and 
his  college  Pylades,  while  my  grandfather  had  saved  his  life 
in  a  critical  illness.  On  this  account  the  old  gentleman  often 
talked  with  my  mother  of  my  education  and  future  course  in 
life  ;  and  it  was  in  such  a  conversation,  as  my  mother  told  me 
afterward  in  Hamburg,  that  he  advised  her  to  devote  me  to 
the  service  of  the  Church,  and  send  me  to  Rome  to  study 
theology  in  a  Catholic  seminary.  Through  his  influential 
friends  among  prelates  of  the  highest  rank,  the  rector  declared 
he  could  obtain  for  me  some  good  position  in  the  Church. 
When  my  mother  told  me  this  she  expressed  great  regret  that 
she  had  not  followed  the  advice  of  the  clever  old  gentleman, 
who  had  early  understood  my  disposition,  and  perhaps  knew 
best  what  spiritual  and  philosophical  influences  would  be  the 
fittest  and  healthiest  for  me.  The  old  lady  still  repented  hav- 
ing refused  such  a  judicious  proposal.  But  she  was  then  full 
of  dreams  of  high  worldly  dignities  for  me  ;  she  was,  moreover, 
a  follower  of  Rousseau,  and  a  confirmed  deist ;  and  besides, 
she  did  not  like  to  put  on  her  oldest  son  the  frock  which  she 
saw  so  ungracefully  worn  by  many  German  priests.  She  did 
not  know  with  what  a  different  chic  the  Roman  abbes  wear  it, 
and  how  coquettishly  their  shoulders  carry  the  black  robe 
which  is  the  pious  uniform  of  gallantry  and  wit  in  ever  beauti- 
ful Rome. 

Writing  straight  on  in  this  way  and  mentioning  whatever 
comes  into  my  head  has  led  me  to  this  chatter  about  my  school 
days ;  and  I  will  take  the  opportunity,  madame,  to  show  you 
how  it  was  by  no  fault  of  mine  that  I  learned  so  little  geog- 
raphy that  I  could  not  afterward  make  my  way  in  the  world. 


14  School. 

The  fact  is,  the  French  had  upset  all  the  boundaries,  and  the 
countries  were  repainted  every  day  ;  those  that  had  been 
blue  suddenly  turned  green  and  many  even  became  blood-red  ; 
the  natives  of  one  country,  according  to  the  latest  yearbook, 
got  so  mixed  up  with  those  of  another  that  the  devil  himself 
could  not  keep  track  of  them  ;  the  products  of  the  countries 
changed,  and  chicory  and  beets  grew  where  hares  and  hunt- 
ing squires  had  flourished  ;  peoples'  characters  were  trans- 
formed— Germans  grew  lively,  Frenchmen  stopped  paying 
compliments,  Englishmen  no  longer  threw  money  out  of 
window,  and  Venetians  lost  their  cunning.  In  short,  it  was 
no  time  to  do  much  in  the  way  of  geography. 

It  is  better  with  natural  history,  in  which  there  are  no  great 
changes  ;  and  there  are  distinct  copperplates  of  apes,  kan- 
garoos, zebras,  rhinoceroses,  etc.  These  remained  so  stamped 
upon  my  mind  that  I  have  often  met  men  whom  I  thought 
I  recognized  as  old  acquaintances. 

Mythology  also  flourished.  I  delighted  in  the  gods  who 
went  about  naked  and  ruled  the  world.  I  do  not  believe  that 
any  schoolboy  in  Rome  ever  knew  more  than  I  did  about  the 
main  doctrines  of  the  old  faith — for  example,  the  loves  of 
Venus.  But  my  great  triumph  was  in  the  Abbe  d'Aulnoi's 
class — a  French  emigre",  who  had  written  a  heap  of  grammars, 
wore  a  red  wig,  and  used  to  hop  about  in  a  wonderful  way 
while  expounding  his  "Art  Po&ique  "and  his  "  Histoire  Alle- 
mande."  He  was  the  only  man  in  the  whole  gymnasium  who 
taught  any  German  history. 

He  had  made  various  French  grammars  and  chrestomathies, 
with  extracts  from  the  French  and  German  classcis,  to  be 
translated  by  his  classes  ;  and  for  the  highest  of  them  had 
published  an  "  Art  Oratoire  "  and  an  "Art  Poetique."  The 
first  was  full  of  receipts  for  eloquence  out  of  Quintilian,  illus- 
trated by  examples  from  the  sermons  of  Flechier,  Massillon, 
Bourdaloue,  and  Bossuet,  which  I  did  not  find  over-tedious. 
But  as  to  the  other,  which  treated  of  the  definition  of  poetry 
(I'art  dc  peindre  par  les  images) — the  mere  sweepings  of  the 
old  school  of  Batteux — and  French  prosody,  and  the  whole 
system  of  French  meters — that  was  steep.  I  do  not  know 
anything  more  insipid  than  the  metrical  system  of  French 
poetry,  this  art  de peindre  par  les  images,  as  they  define  it — a 
vicious  definition  which  probably  accounts  for  their  constantly 
falling  into  pictorial  paraphrases. 

So  I  think  now  ;  and  so  as  a  child  I  thought  then.     And  it 


The  French  Language.  15 

may  readily  be  supposed  that  ill  feeling  broke  out  between  me 
and  the  old  fellow  in  the  wig  when  I  declared  outright  that 
it  was  quite  impossible  for  me  to  write  French  verses.  He 
vowed  I  had  no  soul  for  poetry,  and  called  me  a  barbarian 
from  the  German  woods.  I  still  remember  with  horror  that  I 
had  to  turn  the  speech  of  Caiaphas  to  the  Sanhedrim  from  the 
hexameters  of  Klopstock's  "  Messiah  "  into  French  alexan- 
drines !  It  was  a  refinement  of  cruelty  surpassing  all  the  tor- 
tures of  the  Messiah  himself,  which  even  he  would  not  have 
meekly  endured.  God  forgive  me  !  how  I  cursed  the  world, 
and  foreign  oppressors  that  wanted  to  cram  their  meters  down 
our  throats  ;  and  was  almost  ready  to  devour  the  French  alive. 
I  might  have  died  for  France — but  make  French  verses  ?  never, 
so  long  as  I  lived  ! 

The  quarrel  was  made  up  between  the  rector  and  my  mother. 
She  was,  in  fact,  none  too  well  pleased  to  have  me  learn  to  make 
even  French  verses.  She  had  a  dread  I  should  become  a  poet, 
the  worst  thing,  she  always  said,  that  could  happen  to  me. 
The  ideas  then  attached  to  the  word  poet  were,  to  be  sure,  not 
too  respectable,  as  he  was  supposed  to  be  a  poor  ragged 
devil  ready  to  throw  off  a  copy  of  occasional  verses  for  a 
couple  of  thalers,  and  sure  to  end  his  days  in  the  hospital. 

French  has  difficulties  of  its  own,  as,  its  study  includes 
billeting,  drumming,  a  deal  of  apprendre  par  cceur,  with  special 
care  not  to  be  a  b£te  allemande.  It  cost  me  many  a  scolding. 
I  remember  as  if  it  were  yesterday  what  I  suffered  about  la 
religion.  At  least  six  times  I  was  asked,  "  Henry,  what  is  der 
Glaube  in  French  ?  "  And  six  times  I  answered  through  my 
tears,  " Le  credit"  For  the  seventh  time  the  examiner,  black 
with  rage,  cried,  "  It  is  la  religion  ";  and  down  came  a  shower 
of  blows,  which  set  all  my  comrades  laughing.  I  declare, 
madame,  that  from  that  day  I  have  never  been  able  to  say 
the  word  religion  without  feeling  my  back  turn  blue  with  fear 
and  my  cheeks  red  with  shame.  And  as  a  matter  of  fact,  le 
credit  has  done  more  for  me  in  life  than  la  religion. 

The  spirit  of  the  language  is  an  important  thing  to  learn, 
and  there  is  nothing  like  drumming  for  teaching  that.  Par- 
bleu!  what  a  lot  I  owed  to  the  French  drummer  who  was 
quartered  on  us  so  long,  and  who  had  the  face  of  a  devil  and 
a  heart  like  an  angel's.  His  face  was  small  and  mobile,  with 
a  fearful  black  mustache,  under  which  his  red  lips  curved 
proudly,  while  his  eyes  shot  fiery  glances  on  every  side.  Lit- 
tle fellow  as  I  was  I  was  forever  chained  to  his  side,  helping 


1 6  School. 

him  polish  his  buttons  and  chalk  his  white  waistcoat — for 
M.  Le  Grand  was  not  indifferent  to  pleasing  the  eye.  I 
followed  him  to  guard,  roll  call,  and  parade  ;  there  was  noth- 
ing but  rattling  of  arms  and  fun — Les  jours  de  f£te  sont passes. 
M.  Le  Grand  spoke  only  a  little  broken  German,  only  essential 
words,  such  as  brod,  &uss,  ehre  [bread,  kiss,  honor];  but  he 
could  express  himself  perfectly  on  the  drum.  For  example, 
when  I  did  not  know  what  the  word  liberte  meant  he  beat  the 
Marseillaise,  and  I  understood. 

In  the  same  way  he  taught  me  the  story  of  the  late  events. 
It  is  true  I  could  not  follow  the  words  ;  but  as  he  drummed 
away  all  the  time  I  knew  what  he  meant  to  say.  This  is  really 
the  best  method  of  instruction.  You  comprehend  the  story  of 
the  storming  of  the  Bastille,  the  taking  of  the  Tuilleries,  etc., 
if  you  know  how  the  drums  beat  while  it  all  happened. 

Whether  drumming  is  an  inborn  talent,  or  whether  I  culti- 
vated it  in  my  early  years,  I  certainly  have  it  in  every  limb  and 
in  my  feet  and  hands  ;  and  it  often  comes  out  against  my  will. 
In  Berlin  I  was  once  in  Councilor  Schmalz's  class  in  interna- 
tional law.  It  was  a  drowsy  summer  afternoon,  and  I  sat  on 
the  bench  hearing  less  and  less  ;  my  head  had  gone  to  sleep. 
All  of  a  sudden  I  was  waked  by  the  noise  of  my  own  feet, 
which  had  kept  awake,  and  had  apparently  heard  something 
quite  opposed  to  international  law,  and  insulting  to  all  con- 
stitutional ideas.  As  they  really  understood  more  of  the 
government  of  the  world  than  the  councilor,  for  all  his  big 
Juno  eyes,  and  could  not  put  their  humble  opinion  into  words, 
my  feet  began  to  drum,  and  got  me  into  disgrace. 

Those  infernal  thoughtless  feet !  They  got  me  into  another 
scrape  when  I  was  for  a  while  attending  the  lectures  of  Pro- 
fessor Saalfeld  at  Gottingen.  He  was  as  usual  jerking  him- 
self from  side  to  side  in  his  desk,  and  getting  very  warm  in 
trying  to  belittle  the  Emperor  Napoleon.  But  no,  poor 
feet  !  I  cannot  blame  you  for  drumming  that  time,  and 
should  not  have  minded  if  you  had  in  your  simplicity  taken 
active  steps  to  express  yourselves  more  frankly.  How  could 
I,  Le  Grand's  pupil,  hear  the  emperor  abused  ?  The  empe- 
ror !  The  emperor  !  The  emperor  !  The  great  emperor  ! 

When  I  think  of  the  great  emperor,  all  seems  bright  and 
golden ;  a  long  linden  walk  stretches  before  me  in  full  bloom, 
nightingales  are  singing  in  the  leafy  branches,  the  cascade  is 
roaring,  flowers  are  blooming  in  the  round  beds,  and  dream- 
ily nodding  their  beautiful  heads,  while  I  in  some  wonderful 


The  Great  Emperor.  17 

way  exchange  thoughts  with  them.  The  painted  tulips  greet 
me  with  proud  condescension  ;  the  sensitive  lilies  give  me  a 
sad  and  gentle  nod  ;  the  drunken  red  roses  smile  at  me  from 
a  distance  ;  the  violets  breathe  a  sigh.  I  had  no  acquaint- 
ance at  that  time  with  myrtles  or  laurels,  for  they  had  no 
bright  flowers  to  charm  me  ;  but  the  reseda  and  I,  who  have 
since  had  a  quarrel,  were  on  intimate  terms.  I  am  speaking 
of  the  Diisseldorf  court  garden,  where  I  often  lay  on  the 
grass,  and  eagerly  listened,  as  M.  Le  Grand  told  of  the  great 
emperor's  feats  of  battle,  and  drummed  the  marches  that  were 
played  during  those  feats,  so  that  I  heard  and  saw  it  all. 
M.  Le  Grand  drummed  till  he  almost  broke  my  ear  drums. 

But  what  were  my  feelings  when  I  saw  him  with  my  own 
blessed  eyes — himself,  hosannah  !  the  emperor  ! 

It  was  in  the  avenue  of  the  court  garden  in  Diisseldorf.  As 
I  made  my  way  through  the  gaping  crowd  I  was  thinking  of 
the  deeds  and  battles  that  M.  Le  Grand  had  drummed  for  me, 
and  my  heart  was  beating  the  "  General's  March."  I  was  also 
thinking  of  the  police  regulation  that  no  one  should  ride  in 
that  alley  under  penalty  of  a  fine  of  five  thalers.  The  empe- 
ror and  his  staff  came  riding  along  ;  the  trembling  trees  bowed 
down  as  he  passed  ;  the  sunbeams  peeped  with  timid  curiosity 
through  the  green  leaves  ;  and  in  the  blue  heaven  above  a 
golden  star  was  brightly  shining.  The  emperor  wore  his  sim- 
ple green  uniform  and  the  world-renowned  little  three-cornered 
hat.  He  was  on  a  small  white  horse,  that  moved  proudly  and 
surely  under  him.  The  emperor  rode  with  a  careless,  firm 
seat,  holding  the  reins  in  one  hand  and  gently  stroking  his 
horse's  neck  with  the  other.  He  rode  calmly  along  the  alley. 
No  policeman  interfered  with  him  ;  behind  him  came  his  staff 
on  their  snorting  chargers,  covered  with  gold  and  jewels  ;  the 
drums  rolled,  the  trumpets  blew  ;  mad  Aloysius  came  to  my 
side  and  screeched  out  his  generals'  names  ;  drunken  old 
Gumpertz  was  grumbling  close  by,  and  the  people  cried  with 
a  thousand  tongues,  "Long  live  the  emperor  !  " 


CHAPTER  III. 
flbotber. 


MY  mother  had  lofty,  ambitious  schemes  for  me,  and  all  the 
plans  for  my  education  were  made  with  reference  to  them. 
She  played  the  principal  part  in  the  development  of  my  mind  ; 
she  settled  the  course  of  my  studies,  and  her  plans  for  my 
education  began  before  my  birth.  I  followed  every  wish  she 
expressed  ;  and  must  confess  she  was  responsible  for  the  fruit- 
lessness  of  most  of  my  attempts  and  efforts  in  public  posi- 
tions, which  went  against  my  nature.  This  last  had  far  more 
to  do  in  determining  my  future  than  outward  events. 

The  star  of  our  fate  is  in  ourselves.  My  mother  was  for  a 
time  dazzled  by  the  glories  of  the  Empire,  and  when  the  daughter 
of  an  iron  manufacturer  near  us,  who  was  a  great  friend  of  my 
mother's  and  had  become  a  duchess,  wrote  that  her  husband 
[Marshal  Soult]  had  won  many  victories,  and  would  shortly 
be  promoted  to  be  a  king  —  oh  !  then  my  mother  dreamed  of 
the  brightest  gold  epaulets  or  the  most  splendid  court  uniform 
for  me  in  the  service  of  the  emperor.  So  I  must  pursue  the 
studies  most  appropriate  to  such  a  career,  and  although  rea- 
sonable attention  was  paid  at  the  school  to  mathematics,  and 
the  worthy  Professor  Brewer  was  steadily  putting  me  through 
geometry,  statics,  hydrostatics,  hydraulics,  etc.,  and  I  was 
floundering  in  logarithms  and  algebra,  I  must  have  private 
lessons  in  all  those  branches  that  would  fit  me  to  be  a  great 
strategist,  or,  if  needful,  the  administrator  of  a  conquered 
province. 

With  the  fall  of  the  Empire  my  mother  had  to  abandon  all 
dreams  of  any  such  brilliant  career  for  me. 

She  is  now  eighty-seven,  and  her  faculties  are  unimpaired 
by  age.  She  has  never  pretended  to  control  my  opinions,  and 
has  been  all  indulgence  and  love. 

Her  faith  was  an  uncompromising  deism,  well  suited  to  her 
prevailing  turn  of  mind.  She  was  a  follower  of  Rousseau,  had 
read  his  "  Emile,"  had  nursed  her  own  children,  and  educa- 
tion was  her  hobby.  She  had  been  well  educated  herself,  and 


Her  Char  after.  19 


had  shared  the  studies  of  a  brother  who  became  a  celebrated 
physician,  and  died  young.  While  still  a  mere  girl  she  used 
to  read  aloud  to  her  father  Latin  dissertations  and  other 
learned  writings,  and  often  surprised  the  old  man  by  her 
questions.  Her  reason  and  feelings  were  thoroughly  sound, 
and  I  did  not  inherit  from  her  my  taste  for  the  fantastic  and 
romantic.  As  I  have  said,  she  disapproved  of  poetry,  took 
away  a  novel  if  she  saw  it  in  my  hands,  never  allowed  me  to 
visit  the  theater  or  join  in  popular  games,  kept  watch  on  my 
acquaintance,  scolded  the  maids  if  they  told  ghost  stories 
before  me,  and  in  a  word  did  all  she  could  to  preserve  me 
from  all  superstition  and  poetry. 

She  was  frugal,  but  only  in  her  own  expenses  ;  for  the 
pleasure  of  others  she  could  be  lavish,  and  as  she  did  not  covet 
money,  but  only  set  a  due  value  on  it,  she  spent  it  freely,  and 
often  surprised  me  by  her  liberal  charity.  What  sacrifices 
she  made  for  her  son,  not  only  directing  his  studies,  but,  when 
the  times  grew  harder,  furnishing  him  the  means  of  pursuing 
them  !  When  I  went  to  the  university  my  father's  affairs  had 
fallen  into  a  very  bad  state  ;  and  my  mother  sold  some  jewels, 
a  necklace  and  earrings  of  great  value,  to  provide  the  cost  of 
my  first  four  college  years.  I  was  not  the  first  of  our  family 
either  to  devour  precious  stones  and  drink  pearls  at  the  uni- 
versity. My  mother's  father,  as  she  told  me,  had  the  same 
experience.  The  jewels  which  adorned  his  deceased  mother's 
prayer  book  had  to  pay  for  his  maintenance  at  the  university. 
For  his  father,  old  Lazarus  de  Geldern,  had  fallen  into  great 
poverty  through  a  lawsuit  with  a  married  sister  about  an 
inheritance,  though  his  father  had  left  him  a  fortune  about 
which  an  old  great-aunt  of  mine  used  to  tell  wonderful  stories. 

It  was  like  a  tale  from  the  Arabian  Nights  to  my  childish 
ears  when  the  old  lady  spoke  about  the  great  palaces,  and 
Persian  carpets,  and  heavy  gold  and  silver  services  which  the 
good  man,  who  had  stood  high  at  the  Elector's  court,  lost  in  so 
sad  a  fashion.  The  great  hotel  in  the  Rheinstrasse  was  his 
town  house  ;  the  exisiting  hospital  in  the  Neustadt  had  also 
been  his,  and  a  castle  near  Gravenberg.  And  at  last  he  had 
hardly  where  to  lay  his  head. 


In  fact — I  do  not  know  exactly  what  I  was  thinking  about ; 
pictures  of  my  childhood  float  dimly  through  my  mind  ;  I  was 
thinking  of  my  mother's  castle,  and  its  neglected  garden,  with 


20  My  Mother. 

the  beautiful  marble  statue  lying  in  the  green  grass — I  say  my 
mother's  "  castle,"  but  I  beg  you,  for  mercy's  sake,  not  to  fancy 
anything  splendid  or  fine.  It  is  merely  because  I  have  got 
used  to  the  phrase.  My  father  always  said  the  word  "  the 
castle  "  with  emphasis  and  a  peculiar  smile.  I  learned  the 
meaning  of  the  smile  later  when  I  made  a  trip  to  the  castle 
with  my  mother,  somewhere  about  my  twelfth  year.  It  was 
my  first  journey.  We  traveled  a  whole  day  through  a  thick 
wood,  whose  gloomy  shadows  I  have  never  forgotten,  and  to- 
ward evening  stopped  at  a  gate  leading  into  a  wide  meadow. 
We  had  to  wait  near  half  an  hour  before  the  lad  came  from  a 
mud  cottage  hard  by,  unhasped  the  bar,  and  let  us  in.  I  call 
him  a  lad,  because  old  Martha  always  spoke  of  her  forty-year- 
old  nephew  as  "  the  lad." 

Our  servant,  who  had  often  heard  of  "  the  castle,"  looked 
astounded  when  the  lad  brought  us  to  the  small,  broken-down 
building,  where  the  late  master  had  lived.  He  was  almost 
confounded  when  my  mother  ordered  him  to  bring  the  beds 
in.  How  could  he  guess  there  would  be  no  beds  to  be  found 
in  "  the  castle  "  ?  So  he  had  either  not  heard  her  order  to  take 
the  beds  with  us  or  had  treated  it  as  unnecessary  trouble. 

The  little  house,  of  only  one  story,  had  in  its  best  days  only 
five  habitable  rooms,  and  was  now  a  sad  picture  of  neglect. 
Broken  furniture,  torn  wall  papers,  nota  single  whole  window- 
pane,  the  floors  broken  in  many  places — everywhere  the  trace 
of  the  presence  of  wanton  soldiers.  "  The  boys  billeted  here 
had  great  times,"  said  the  lad,  with  a  silly  smile.  My  mother 
signed  to  him  to  leave  us  alone  ;  and  while  he  and  Johann 
were  busy  together  I  went  to  look  at  the  garden.  This  also 
wore  a  sad  look  of  decay.  The  great  trees  were  maimed  or 
broken  down,  and  rank  weeds  were  growing  over  their  trunks. 
Straggling  borders  of  box  here  and  there  showed  where  the 
walks  had  been.  Here  and  there  a  statue  was  still  standing, 
having  generally  lost  its  head,  or  at  least  its  nose.  I  remem- 
ber a  Diana  whose  lower  half  was  drolly  overgrown  with  ivy, 
and  a  goddess  of  plenty  whose  horn  was  filled  with  foul-smell- 
ling  weeds.  One  statue  had  escaped,  God  knows  how,  the 
malice  of  time  and  men.  Someone  had  indeed  thrown  her 
from  her  pedestal  into  the  long  grass  ;  but  she  lay  there 
unharmed,  a  marble  goddess  with  beautiful  Grecian  features 
and  deep-parted  breasts —  a  revelation  of  Greek  beauty  in  the 
tall  grass.  I  was  almost  frightened  at  sight  of  her.  I  felt  a 
strange,  dizzy  shyness,  and  a  secret  uneasiness  soon  made  me 
avoid  her  gaze. 


The  Statue  at  the  Castle.  21 

When  I  got  back  to  my  mother  she  was  standing  at  the  win- 
dow, deep  in  thought,  her  head  resting  on  her  right  hand, 
while  the  tears  flowed  unrestrained  down  her  cheeks.  I  had 
never  seen  her  weep  so.  She  hastened  to  give  me  a  tender 
embrace,  and  express  her  sorrow  that,  through  Johann's  care- 
lessness, I  should  not  have  a  good  bed.  "  Old  Martha  is  very 
ill,"  said  she,  "  and  cannot  give  you  her  bed,  dear  child.  But 
Johann  shall  bring  the  cushions  from  the  carriage,  and  lay 
them  so  that  you  can  sleep  on  them,  and  shall  give  you  his 
cloak  for  a  blanket.  I  will  sleep  here  on  the  straw.  This  was 
my  dear  father's  room  ;  it  looked  better  then.  Leave  me 
alone."  And  the  tears  fell  faster  from  her  eyes. 

Was  it  my  strange  bed  or  the  stirring  of  my  heart  which 
would  not  let  me  sleep  ?  The  moon  shone  so  brightly  through 
the  broken  windows,  she  seemed  to  draw  me  out  into  the  clear 
summer  night.  I  turned  from  side  to  side  on  my  couch,  closed 
my  eyes  and  opened  them  again ;  but  all  the  while  I  thought 
of  the  beautiful  statue  I  had  seen  lying  in  the  grass.  I  could 
not  understand  the  shyness  that  had  come  over  me  at 
sight  of  her.  I  was  ashamed  of  such  a  childish  feeling,  and 
whispered  to  myself,  "  I  will  kiss  you  in  the  morning,  you 
beautiful  marble  face,  in  the  corner  of  your  mouth  where  your 
lips  meet  in  such  a  sweet  dimple."  An  uneasy  feeling  such  as 
I  had  never  felt  ran  through  all  my  limbs  ;  I  could  not  over- 
come the  strange  impulse,  and  sprang  boldly  from  my  couch, 
crying,  "  What  do  I  care  ?  I  will  kiss  you  now,  my  beauty  !  " 
Softly,  lest  my  mother  should  hear  me,  I  left  the  house — with 
all  the  more  ease  as,  although  there  was  a  fine  shield  above 
the  doorway,  there  was  no  door — and  hurried  through  the 
neglected  shrubbery  of  the  garden.  There  was  no  sound  to 
be  heard  ;  all  lay  still  and  solemn  in  the  moonlight.  The 
shadows  of  the  branches  seemed  riveted  to  the  ground.  In 
the  green  grass  the  fair  goddess  lay  motionless  ;  no  stony 
death,  but  a  quiet  sleep  seemed  to  enchain  her  lovely  limbs; 
and  as  I  approached  I  was  almost  afraid  the  lightest  noise 
might  rouse  her  from  her  slumber.  I  held  my  breath  as  I 
bent  over  to  gaze  in  her  lovely  face  ;  an  anxious  terror  would 
have  persuaded  me  to  flee,  but  a  boyish  desire  urged  me  on. 
My  heart  beat  as  if  I  were  bent  on  murder  ;  and  1  kissed  the 
lovely  goddess  with  an  ardor,  a  tenderness,  and  despair  that  I 
have  never  since  thrown  into  a  kiss.  Nor  can  I  ever  forget 
the  fearful,  sweet  emotion  that  stirred  my  soul  when  my 
mouth  felt  the  refreshing  coldness  of  those  marble  lips. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
•fcitb  anD  Ifcin. 

NEXT  to  my  mother  my  education  was  especially  attended 
to  by  my  uncle  Simon  de  Geldern.  He  has  been  dead  these 
twenty  years.  He  was  a  strange  fellow,  of  a  queer  and 
rather  ridiculous  appearance  ;  a  comfortable  looking  little 
man,  with  a  palish,  strong  face,  and  a  nose  of  Grecian  outline 
a  third  longer  than  the  Greeks  usually  wore  their  noses. 

It  was  said  that  his  nose  had  been  of  the  usual  size  in  his 
youth,  and  had  grown  so  indecently  long  only  through  a  bad 
habit  he  had  of  pulling  it.  When  we  children  asked  him  if 
this  was  true  he  scolded  us  for  our  impertinent  question,  and 
pulled  his  nose. 

He  dressed  in  the  old  French  style,  with  knee  breeches  and 
white  silk  stockings,  buckled  shoes,  and  a  long,  old-fashioned 
cue,  which  wagged  from  one  shoulder  to  the  other  as  the  little 
man  trotted  along  the  street,  and  cut  various  capers,  as  if  it 
were  making  fun  of  its  owner. 

When  my  good  uncle  was  in  a  deep  study  or  reading  the 
paper  I  was  often  seized  with  a  mischievous  impulse  to  take 
a  sly  hold  of  it  and  pull  it  like  a  door  bell ;  whereat  he  was 
greatly  enraged,  and  wrung  his  hands  over  these  youngsters 
who  had  no  respect  for  things  earthly  or  divine,  and  would 
end  by  laying  hands  on  everything  sacred. 

But  if  his  appearance  was  not  calculated  to  inspire  much 
respect,  he  was  worthy  of  all  esteem,  and  his  heart  was  the 
best  and  truest  heart  I  have  met  with  on  earth.  There  was  a 
sense  of  honor  about  the  man  that  reminded  you  of  the  punc- 
tilio of  the  old  Spanish  drama,  and  in  his  love  of  truth  he  was 
like  one  of  its  heroes.  He  had  never  occasion  to  be  the 
"  Physician  of  his  own  honor,"  but  was  a  "  Constant  Prince  "  of 
a  true  and  knightly  pattern — though  he  did  not  spout  lines  of 
four  trochees,  nor  aspire  to  a  glorious  death  ;  and  instead  of 
a  knight's  mantle  wore  a  shabby  swallow-tail  coat. 

No  ascetic  enemy  of  amusement,  he  would  join  in  merry- 
makings at  fairs,  and  sit  in  mine  host  Rasia's  common  room 


My  Uncle.  23 

devouring  little  birds  with  juniper  sauce  ;  but  he  would  give 
up  all  the  little  birds  and  pleasures  in  life  if  his  notions  of 
what  is  good  and  true  demanded  the  sacrifice.  And  he  did  it 
all  so  simply,  nay,  almost  timidly,  that  no  one  saw  the  martyr 
hidden  in  this  grotesque  figure. 

From  a  worldly  point  of  view  his  life  was  a  failure.  Simon 
de  Geldern  had  studied  the  humanities  (humaniora)  at  the 
Jesuits'  College  ;  and  when  his  parents'  death  left  him  free  to 
choose  his  course  in  life  he  did  not  profit  by  it  to  seek  at  a 
foreign  university  the  means  of  earning  a  living,  but  chose  to 
make  his  home  in  Diisseldorf,  in  "  Noah's  Ark,"  as  the  little 
house  he  inherited  from  his  father  was  called,  from  the  brightly 
painted  carving  to  be  seen  over  its  door. 

Here  he  devoted  himself 'with  restless  energy  to  literary 
trifles,  and  foibles  such  as  bibliomania,  and,  above  all,  to  author- 
ship, which  he  practiced  in  the  newspapers  and  obscure  writ- 
ings of  the  time  :  though  he  not  only  wrote  but  even  thought 
with  much  labor. 

Perhaps  his  rage  for  writing  may  have  sprung  from  a  strong 
desire  to  be  useful  to  his  fellow-men.  He  entered  into  all  the 
questions  of  the  day  ;  and  the  reading  of  papers  and  pamphlets 
was  a  perfect  mania  with  him,  fostered  by  the  fact  that  his 
father  and  brother  had  been  physicians.  The  old  women  could 
not  be  persuaded  that  the  son  of  the  old  doctor  who  had  so  often 
attended  them  had  not  inherited  his  father's  remedies  ;  and 
when  they  got  ill  they  brought  bottles  of  their  water  to  him, 
begging  him  with  tears  to  look  and  tell  them  what  ailed  them. 
When  disturbed  in  his  study  after  this  fashion  the  old  man 
flew  into  a  rage,  wished  the  old  women  and  their  bottles  to  the 
devil,  and  drove  them  off  as  far  as  he  could. 

This  uncle  it  was  who  directed  my  education  in  a  great 
degree  ;  and  I  owe  him  unending  thanks  for  it.  Widely  as 
his  views  differed  from  mine,  and  wearisome  as  his  literary 
efforts  were,  they  may  have  awakened  in  my  breast  the 
love  of  literary  pursuits. 

He  wrote  a  formal  official  style,  learned  at  the  Jesuits' 
College,  where  Latin  was  the  chief  thing  ;  and  found  it  hard  to 
reconcile  himself  to  my  offhand  manner,  which  seemed  to  him 
too  light,  trivial,  and  irreverent.  But  his  zeal  in  affording  me 
the  means  of  literary  advancement  was  of  great  use  to  me. 

When  I  was  still  a  boy  he  presented  me  with  his  finest  and 
costliest  books,  made  me  free  of  his  library,  rich  in  classic 
authors  and  the  pamphlets  of  the  day,  and  allowed  me  to 


Kith  and  Kin. 


rummage  the  chests  in  the  garret  of  Noah's  Ark,  where  my 
grandfather's  books  and  writings  lay  stored. 

What  joy  filled  my  boyish  heart  when  I  was  permitted  to 
spend  whole  days  in  that  great  room  under  the  roof.  It  was 
not  a  nice  place  ;  and  its  only  tenant,  a  great  Angora  cat,  was 
not  over-clean,  as  she  occasionally  brushed  with  her  tail  some 
of  the  dust  and  cobwebs  from  the  heaps  of  old  rubbish  piled 
up  there. 

But  my  heart  was  so  young,  and  the  sun  streamed  so  brightly 
through  the  little  window,  that  all  seemed  bathed  in  a  fan- 
tastic light  ;  the  old  cat  was  a  princess,  who  would  presently 
be  set  free  from  the  spell  that  bound  her,  and  reappear  in  her 
former  beauty  and  splendor,  while  the  garret  would  change 
into  a  palace,  as  such  things  happen  in  fairy  tales. 

But  the  good  old  days  of  fairy  tales  are  gone.  Cats  remain 
cats  ;  and  the  garret  of  Noah's  Ark  remained  a  dusty  lumber 
room,  a  hospital  for  incurable  household  goods,  a  salpetrttre 
for  old  furniture  that  had  fallen  into  the  last  stages  of  decrepi- 
tude, and  was  not  thrown  out  of  doors  from  a  sentimental 
regard  for  the  pious  memories  that  clustered  round  it. 

There  was  a  rotten,  broken-down  cradle  in  which  my  mother 
had  been  rocked  ;  and  now  lying  in  it,  my  grandfather's  state 
wig,  quite  out  of  fashion,  and  with  a  look  of  having  lost  its 
mind  through  age.  A  rusty  court  sword  of  his,  too,  and  half 
a  pair  of  tongs  and  other  invalided  fire  irons  hung  on  the  wall. 
On  a  crazy  shelf  stood  my  grandmother's  parrot,  stuffed  and 
stripped  of  most  of  its  feathers,  no  longer  green,  but  ashy 
gray,  and  with  a  weird  look  in  its  one  remaining  glass  eye. 

Here,  too,  was  a  great,  green  porcelain  pug,  hollow  and  with 
a  part  of  his  hinder  parts  gone.  The  cat  seemed  to  have  a 
great  respect  for  this  piece  of  Japanese  or  Chinese  art,  and 
made  devout  bows  to  it,  as  if  she  were  saying  her  prayers  to 
a  supernatural  being.  Cats  are  so  superstitious. 

In  one  corner  lay  an  old  flute  that  had  once  belonged  to  my 
mother.  She  used  to  play  on  it  when  quite  a  girl,  and  chose 
this  garret  for  her  music  room,  that  her  old  father  might  not 
be  disturbed  by  the  music — or  perhaps  lest  he  should  be 
jealous  of  her  wasting  time  over  such  sentimentalities.  The 
cat  had  taken  the  flute  for  her  favorite  plaything,  dragging  it 
round  the  floor  by  the  faded  pink  ribbon  still  tied  round  it. 

Among  the  antiquities  were  globes  and  wonderful  orreries, 
alembics  and  retorts,  souvenirs  of  researches  in  astrology  and 
alchemy. 


The  Orientalist.  25 


In  the  chests,  under  my  grandfather's  books,  were  many 
papers  relating  to  these  pursuits.  Most  of  the  books  were  old 
medical  pamphlets.  There  was  no  lack  of  philosophers 
either  ;  and  near  the  judicious  Cartesius  lay  the  fancies  of 
Paracelsus,  von  Helmont,  and  Agrippa  von  Nettesheim,  of 
whose  "  Philosophia  Occulta  "  i  here  first  caught  sight.  My 
boyish  fancy  was  tickled  by  his  dedicatory  epistle  to  the  Abbot 
Trithem,  and  the  latter's  acknowledgment,  wherein  the  old 
charlatan's  bombastic  compliments  were  returned  with  interest 
by  his  friend. 

The  best  and  most  valuable  find  I  made  in  the  dusty  chests  was 
a  notebook  in  the  hand  of  a  brother  of  my  grandfather,  whom 
they  called  the  Chevalier,  or  the  Orientalist,  and  of  whom  my 
aunts  were  forever  talking.  This  great-uncle,  who  was  also  a 
Simon  de  Geldern,  must  have  been  a  rare  character.  He 
gained  the  nickname  of"  the  Orientalist"  from  having  traveled 
much  in  the  East,  and  after  his  return  always  wearing  the 
Oriental  dress.  He  seems  to  have  remained  longest  in  the 
coast  settlements  in  Northern  Africa,  especially  in  Morocco, 
where  he  learned  from  a  Portuguese  the  trade  of  an  armorer, 
and  did  a  flourishing  business.  He  made  a  pilgrimage  to 
Jerusalem,  and  in  a  convulsion  of  prayer  upon  Mount  Moriah 
had  a  vision.  What  did  he  see  ?  That  he  never  revealed. 
An  independent  tribe  of  Bedouins,  not  professing  Islamism, 
but  a  sort  of  free  Mosaic  worship,  and  having  its  headquarters 
in  an  unknown  oasis  of  the  North  African  desert,  chose  him  as 
their  leader  or  sheik.  These  warlike  people  lived  at  enmity 
with  all  the  neighboring  natives,  and  were  a  terror  to  caravans. 
In  European  phrase,  my  sainted  great-uncle,  the  pious  vision- 
ary of  the  holy  Mount  Moriah,  became  a  robber  chief.  In 
those  fair  lands  he  acquired  the  skill  in  horse  breeding  and 
riding  which  gained  him  so  much  reputation  after  his  return 
home. 

In  the' various  courts  he  so  long  frequented,  he  shone  by 
his  beauty  and  stately  presence,  as  well  as  the  richness  of  his 
Oriental  costume,  which  had  an  especial  attraction  for  women. 
His  pretended  skill  in  the  black  art  gave  him  great  influence  ; 
and  no  one  dared  breathe  a  word  against  the  powerful  necro- 
mancer in  the  ears  of  his  high  protectors.  The  spirit  of  in- 
trigue feared  the  spirits  of  the  Cabala.  Nothing  but  his  own 
arrogance  could  have  ruined  him  ;  and  my  old  aunts  used  to 
shake  their  gray  heads  mysteriously  when  they  whispered  of 
gallant  adventures,  in  which  "  the  Orientalist  "  and  a  lady  of 


26  Kith  and  Kin. 


high  rank  figured,  the  discovery  of  which  forced  him  to  leave 
with  all  haste  the  court  and  country.  Only  by  flight,  and 
with  the  loss  of  all  his  valuables,  did  he  avoid  certain  death, 
and  he  owed  his  escape  to  his  well-known  skill  as  a  rider. 

After  this  adventure,  he  seems  to  have  found  a  safe  though 
humble  place  of  refuge  in  England.  I  gather  this  from 
a  pamphlet  of  my  great  uncle's  printed  in  London,  which  I 
once  found  in  the  library  at  Diisseldorf,  when  I  had  one  day 
happened  to  climb  up  to  the  highest  shelf.  It  was  an  oratorio 
in  French  verse,  called  "  Moses  upon  Horeb,"  and  probably 
referred  to  the  vision  already  mentioned.  The  preface  was 
in  English,  and  dated  at  London.  The  verses,  like  all  French 
verses,  were  lukewarm  water  in  rhyme  ;  but  the  English 
prose  of  the  preface  betrayed  the  discontent  of  a  proud  man 
in  straitened  circumstances. 

A  hard  riddle  to  read  was  this  same  great  uncle.  He  had 
a  strange  career,  such  as  was  possible  only  in  the  begin- 
ning and  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century.  He  was  half  a 
dreamer,  engaged  in  the  propaganda  of  a  Utopia  of  cosmo- 
politan improvement,  half  a  free  lance,  bursting  through  or 
leaping  over  the  rotten  barriers  of  a  rotten  society.  At  any 
rate  he  was  a  man. 

His  charlatanism,  which  there  is  no  denying,  was  of  no 
ordinary  kind.  He  was  no  common  charlatan,  pulling  out 
teeth  for  peasants  at  a  fair  ;  he  walked  proudly  in  the  palaces 
of  the  great,  and  boldly  wrenched  out  their  back  teeth,  as  the 
knight  Huon  de  Bordeaux  did  for  the  Sultan  of  Babylon. 
There  is  no  working  without  noise,  says  the  proverb  ;  and  to 
live  is  work,  like  anything  else. 

And  what  remarkable  man  is  not  a  bit  of  a  charlatan  ?  The 
charlatans  of  modesty,  with  their  meek  self-conceit,  are  the 
meanest  of  all.  He  who  would  influence  men  must  have 
some  ingredient  of  charlatanism  about  him.  The  end  justi- 
fies the  means. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  the  great  uncle  prodigiously  developed 
the  boy's  imagination.  All  that  was  told  of  him  made  an  in- 
delible impression  on  my  young  mind  ;  and  I  was  so  wrapped 
up  in  his  wanderings  and  adventures,  that  in  broad  daylight 
there  often  came  over  me  an  uncanny  feeling  that  I  was  my- 
self my  great  uncle  deceased,  and  my  life  a  mere  sequel  to 
that  of  him  who  had  died  so  many  long  years  ago  ! 

At  night  I  went  back  to  those  times  in  my  dreams.  My 
life  was  like  a  great  newspaper,  where  the  upper  part  contains 


fA  ^Double  Life.  27 

the  present,  the  sayings  and  doings  of  the  day — while  below 
is  spread  out  the  poetic  past  in  a  series  of  romantic  feuil- 
letons.  In  my  dreams  I  was  identified  with  my  great  uncle, 
and  yet  had  a  fearful  feeling  that  I  was  someone  else  belong- 
ing to  another  time.  In  places  and  events  of  which  I  had  no 
previous  knowledge,  I  moved  with  a  sure  foot  and  quiet 
mind.  Men  in  brilliant  colors  and  unfamiliar  garments,  with 
strange  haggard  faces,  appeared  to  me  ;  and  I  greeted  them 
as  old  acquaintances.  I  understood  their  wild  language 
though  it  was  quite  new  to  me  ;  and,  to  my  wonder,  I  replied 
in  the  same  tongue,  gesticulated  with  a  vehemence  quite  for- 
eign to  my  nature,  and  said  things  entirely  at  variance  with 
my  usual  moods  of  thought. 

This  strange  state  lasted  for  a  full  year ;  and  some  traces 
of  it  remained  after  I  had  regained  full  possession  of  my 
single  identity.  Many  idiosyncrasies  and  unfortunate  sym- 
pathies, and  antipathies  foreign  to  my  nature,  many  actions 
entirely  contrary  to  my  own  ideas,  I  recognize  as  the  results 
of  that  dream  life  in  which  I  was  my  great-uncle.  When 
I  am  guilty  of  faults  for  which  I  cannot  account,  I  set  them 
down  to  the  account  of  my  Oriental  double.  I  once  spoke  to 
my  father  of  this  hypothesis,  in  excuse  for  some  slight  error, 
and  he  observed  merrily  that  he  hoped  my  uncle  had  not 
signed  any  drafts  that  I  should  have  to  pay  some  day.  No 
such  Eastern  drafts  have  ever  been  presented  to  me  ;  and  I 
have  had  quite  enough  trouble  with  my  own  Western  ones. 

Our  forefathers  leave  us  worse  debts  to  pay  than  money 
debts.  Each  generation  is  a  sequel  to  the  last,  and  must  an- 
swer for  its  deeds.  The  Scripture  says,  "  The  fathers  have 
eaten  sour  grapes,  and  the  children's  teeth  are  set  on 
edge."  Each  age  as  it  comes  upon  the  stage  is  responsible 
for  the  last,  and  all  mankind  must  pay  the  debts  of  those 
that  have  gone  before  them. 

Instead  of  looking  for  examples,  I  will  take  my  own 
personal  experience,  and  give  an  instance  where  the  most 
harmless  facts  were  made  by  my  enemies  the  ground  of 
malevolent  insinuation.  Observing  that  in  my  biographical 
recollections  I  often  speak  of  my  mother's  family,  and  say 
nothing  of  my  father's  kith  and  kin,  they  must  needs  point 
to  this  as  a  shameful  case  of  undue  prominence  and  unworthy 
reticence — attributing  to  me  the  same  motives  that  were  laid 
to  the  charge  of  my  late  colleague  Wolfang  Goethe. 

It  is  true,  to  be  sure,  that  in  his  memoirs  there  are  frequent 


28  Kith  and  Kin. 


complacent  references  to  his  paternal  grandfather,  who  as 
the  grave  Herr  Schultheiss  presided  in  the  town  hall  in 
Frankfort  ;  while  of  his  grandfather  on  the  mother's  side,  a 
worthy  repairing  tailor,  who  tucked  up  his  legs  on  a  work- 
bench in  the  Bockenheimer  Gasse  and  darned  the  republic's 
breeches,  he  says  not  a  word. 

It  is  no  business  of  mine  to  defend  Goethe  for  thus  ignor- 
ing one  of  his  grandfathers  ;  but  in  my  own  case  I  must  cor- 
rect the  ill-natured  and  widely  repeated  insinuation  ;  for  it  is 
not  my  fault  if  I  have  said  nothing  in  my  writings  of  my 
paternal  grandfather.  The  reason  is  simple  ;  I  never  found 
out  much  about  him  to  tell.  My  late  father  came  to  my 
native  town  of  Diisseldorf  as  a  stranger,  and  had  no  relatives 
there — none  of  those  old  aunts  and  cousins,  who  are  the  fe- 
male bards,  daily  singing  with  epic  monotony  the  old  family 
legends  to  the  younger  generation,  with  an  accompaniment  of 
trumpet  tones  from  their  noses,  instead  of  the  Scottish  bag- 
pipe. My  young  mind  received  only  impressions  of  the 
deeds  of  the  clans  on  my  mother's  side  ;  but  to  all  that  the 
old  Braunles  and  Brunhildes  related  I  listened  attentively. 

My  father  himself  was  a  very  silent  man  ;  and  when,  as  a 
little  boy,  passing  weekdays  in  the  old  Franciscan  cloisters 
and  Sundays  at  home,  I  once  took  occasion  to  ask  him  who 
my  grandfather  was,  he  answered,  half  laughing  and  half 
vexed,  "  Your  grandfather  was  a  little  Jew,  and  had  a  long 
beard." 

Next  day  I  went  to  school  and,  rinding  my  comrades  all 
assembled,  I  hastened  to  impart  to  them  the  important  news 
that  my  grandfather  had  been  a  little  Jew  with  a  long  beard. 
I  had  hardly  told  the  fact,  when  it  flew  from  mouth  to  mouth, 
in  all  sorts  of  tones,  and  an  accompaniment  of  all  sorts 
of  animal  noises.  The  boys  jumped  on  to  the  benches  and 
tables,  pulled  the  blackboards  down  from  the  walls,  threw 
them  and  the  inkstands  on  to  the  floor,  with  shouts  of  laughter, 
bleatings,  gruntings,  yelpings,  and  Growings — a  fiendish  con- 
cert, with  one  burden,  "  His  grandfather  was  a  little  Jew  with 
a  long  beard." 

The  class-tutor,  hearing  the  noise,  came  in  with  rage  in  his 
countenance,  and  inquired  who  had  stirred  up  this  riot.  As 
usual,  each  one  tried  to  excuse  himself  ;  and  the  end  of  it 
was  that  poor  I  was  convicted  of  having  done  it  all  by  telling 
about  my  grandfather,  and  was  soundly  flogged  in  conse- 
quence. 


[My  First  Flogging.  29 

It  was  the  first  flogging  I  ever  got ;  and  I  made  the  philo- 
sophical reflection  that  the  good  Lord,  who  made  rods  grow, 
took  care  that  whoever  wielded  them  should  tire  himself  by 
so  doing — otherwise  floggings  would  be  unbearable.  The 
stick  with  which  I  was  beaten  was  a  rattan  of  a  light  yellow 
color  ;  and  the  stripes  left  on  my  back  were  dark  blue. 
I  have  never  forgotten  this. 

Nor  have  I  forgotten  the  name  of  the  teacher  who  beat  me 
so  unmercifully  ;  it  was  Father  Dickerscheit.  He  was  soon 
after  dismissed  from  the  school,  for  reasons  which  I  have  not 
forgotten,  but  will  not  set  down.  The  liberals  have  so  often 
unjustly  accused  the  priesthood  that  they  can  afford  to  for- 
give an  unworthy  brother  for  a  crime  which  sprang  from 
a  natural,  or  rather  an  unnatural,  impulse. 

With  the  name  of  the  man  who  gave  me  my  first  flogging, 
I  recall  the  occasion  of  it,  namely  my  unfortunate  genealogical 
confession  ;  and  the  association  is  still  so  strong  that,  when- 
ever I  hear  of  a  little  Jew  with  a  long  beard,  I  feel  creeps 
down  my  back.  "  The  scalded  cat  fears  cold  water,"  says 
the  proverb  ;  and  it  will  readily  be  believed  that  I  never 
afterward  felt  any  great  desire  to  make  a  nearer  acquaintance 
with  such  a  doubtful  grandfather,  or  to  give  a  description  of 
my  family  tree  to  &  large  audience,  when  it  had  been  so  badly 
received  by  a  small  one. 

I  will  not  entirely  pass  by  my  paternal  grandmother,  though 
I  have  little  to  say  of  her.  She  was  a  remarkably  handsome 
woman,  and  the  only  daughter  of  a  Hamburg  banker,  known 
far  and  wide  for  his  wealth  ;  which  leads  me  to  suppose  that 
the  little  Jew,  who  carried  her  off  from  her  father's  house  to 
his  humble  home  in  Hanover,  must  have  possessed  some 
qualities  besides  his  long  beard,  and  been  a  worthy  man.  He 
died  early,  leaving  a  widow  with  six  children,  all  young  boys. 
She  went  back  to  Hamburg,  and  there  she  died  at  no  great 
age. 

In  my  uncle  Salomon  Heine's  bedroom  I  once  saw  a  por- 
trait of  my  grandmother.  The  painter,  who  aspired  to  Rem- 
brandt-like effect  of  light  and  shade,  had  given  her  a  black, 
nun-like  headdress,  an  almost  equally  severe  dark  costume, 
and  put  in  an  almost  pitch-black  background  ;  so  that  her  round 
face  with  its  double  chin  stood  out  like  a  full  moon  on  a  black 
sky.  The  features,  which  still  showed  the  traces  of  great 
beauty,  were  at  once  gentle  and  strong  ;~and  the  delicacy  of 
the  complexion  gave  the  face  an  expression  of  peculiar  refine- 


30  Kith  and  Kin. 


ment.  If  the  painter  had  put  a  large  diamond  cross  on  the 
breast,  it  would  certainly  have  passed  for  a  portrait  of  the 
lady  abbess  of  some  noble  Protestant  convent. 

So  far  as  I  know,  only  two  of  my  grandmother's  children  in- 
herited any  remarkable  beauty — namely,  my  father  and  my 
uncle  Salomon  Heine,  the  late  head  of  the  Hamburg  banking 
house  of  that  name. 

My  father's  beauty  had  a  certain  weakness  and  want  of 
character  that  was  almost  feminine.  His  brother  was  of  a 
more  manly  beauty  ;  and  in  fact  he  was  a  man  of  great  strength 
of  character,  which  appeared  in  his  formal,  regular,  and  almost 
forbidding  features.  His  children  were  all,  without  exception, 
enchantingly  beautiful,  but  were  cut  off  in  their  prime  ;  so 
that  of  this  garland  of  beauty  but  two  now  survive,  the  pres- 
ent head  of  the  banking  house  and  his  sister. 

I  loved  all  these  children  dearly,  and  their  mother  also,  so 
fair  and  so  soon  taken  away  ;  and  many  a  tear  I  shed  for 
them.  I  have  at  this  moment  to  shake  my  cap  and  bells  to 
banish  the  sad  thoughts  they  inspire. 

I  have  said  there  was  something  effeminate  in  my  father's 
beauty.  But  I  do  not  mean  to  impute  to  him  any  want  of 
manliness.  He  showed  plenty  of  this  in  his  youth,  and  I  am 
a  living  proof  of  it  myself  ;  nor  is  it  unbecoming  in  me  to  say. 
I  refer  only  to  his  outward  features,  which  were  soft  and  gen- 
tly rounded,  not  hard  and  severe.  There  was  a  lack  of  firm- 
ness in  them,  and  a  certain  want  of  decision.  He  grew  fat  in 
later  years,  and  cannot  have  been  slender  even  in  his  youth. 

This  was  apparent  in  his  portrait,  afterward  lost  in  a  fire 
at  my  mother's  house,  which  represented  him  as  a  youth  of 
eighteen  or  nineteen,  in  a  red  uniform,  his  hair  in  powder 
and  worn  in  a  bag  behind.  It  was  luckily  in  pastel ;  and  I 
say  "  luckily,"  because  that  vehicle  is  capable  of  represent- 
ing, far  better  than  oils  with  their  varnished  surface,  the 
bloom  which  we  observe  on  the  faces  of  those  wearing  powder 
and  which  effectually  masks  any  want  of  firmness.  In  this 
portrait  the  artist,  by  the  contrast  of  the  powdered  hair  and 
the  white  cravat,  had  given  a  higher  tone  to  the  face,  so  that 
it  stood  out  more  boldly.  The  scarlet  coat  also,  so  unpleas- 
ant in  oils,  had  a  good  effect,  and  toned  down  the  high 
color  of  the  face. 

Its  type  of  beauty  was  unlike  both  the  pure  and  strong  ideal 
of  Greek  art,  and  the  spiritual  and  dreamy,  yet  animal  beauty 
of  the  Renaissance  ;  and  had  rather  the  character  of  an  age 


Father.  31 


without  much  character,  which  preferred  the  elegant,  pretty, 
and  coquettish  to  the  beautiful  —  an  age  that  pushed  insipidity 
almost  to  poetry  —  the  sweet  and  highly  ornamented  style  of 
the  rococo,  the  age  of  hair-bags  as  it  has  been  called.  Had 
this  portrait  been  of  a  smaller  size,  it  might  have  been  a  work 
of  the  celebrated  Watteau,  destined  to  be  surrounded  with 
bright  gems  and  gilding  and  figure  on  the  fan  of  Mme.  de 
Pompadour. 

It  may  be  worth  mentioning  that  my  father,  even  in  his 
later  years,  remained  true  to  the  old  French  fashion  of  powder, 
and  to  the  time  of  his  death  was  powdered  every  day  —  though 
he  had  the  handsomest  hair  that  can  be  conceived.  It  was 
light,  almost  golden,  and  as  fine  as  Chinese  floss  silk. 

No  doubt  he  would  have  gladly  continued  to  wear  a  bag, 
but  the  law  of  fashion  was  absolute.  So  he  hit  upon  an  expe- 
dient that  conciliated  everything.  He  sacrificed  the  form,  the 
black  sachet  ;  but  always  wore  the  long  locks  of  hair  turned 
up  like  a  chignon,  and  fastened  on  top  of  his  head  with  a 
little  comb.  It  was  hardly  noticeable,  thanks  to  the  fineness 
of  his  hair  and  to  the  powder  ;  and  my  father  thus  escaped 
apostacy  from  the  old  doctrine  of  the  bag,  and,  like  so  many 
crypto-orthodox,  conformed  only  outwardly  to  the  inexorable 
spirit  of  the  times. 

The  red  uniform  in  which  he  was  painted  was  a  relic  of  his 
Hanoverian  service.  At  the  beginning  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, he  found  himself  one  of  the  followers  of  Prince  Ernest 
of  Cumberland  ;  and  made  the  campaign  of  Flanders  and 
Brabant  with  him  as  commissary,  or  rather  what  the  French 
call  an  officier  de  bouche,  and  the  Prussians  a  mehlwurm.  The 
youngster's  real  position  however  was  that  of  a  favorite  of  the 
prince,  a  Brummel  au  petit  pied  and  without  a  striped  cravat  ; 
and  he  met  at  last  the  fate  of  such  playthings  of  the  favor  of 
princes.  As  long  as  he  lived,  my  father  was  persuaded  that  the 
prince,  afterward  King  of  Hanover,  had  not  forgotten  him  ; 
and  could  never  understand  why  the  prince  did  not  send  for 
him  and  never  inquired  about  him,  when  he  could  not  have 
known  that  his  favorite  was  not  in  need  of  help  from  him. 

Many  habits  of  which  my  mother  gradually  reformed  him 
had  been  contracted  by  my  father  in  those  campaigning  times. 
For  instance,  he  was  readily  induced  to  play  high,  and  was  a 
protector  of  the  dramatic  art,  or  rather  of  its  priestesses  ; 
and  horses  and  hounds  were  his  passion.  When  he  moved  to 
Diisseldorf,  where  he  became  a  merchant  for  love  of  my 


32  Kith  and  Kin. 


mother,  he  brought  with  him  twelve  superb  horses.  He  gave 
them  up,  however,  at  the  desire  of  his  young  wife,  who  per- 
suaded him  that  this  four-footed  capital  consumed  a  great 
deal  of  hay  and  paid  no  interest. 

She  had  harder  work  to  get  rid  of  the  head  groom — a  big 
hulking  fellow,  who  hung  about  the  stables  and  played  cards 
with  any  chance  acquaintances  he  could  pick  up.  He  finally 
took  himself  off,  with  a  gold  repeater  of  my  father's  and  some 
other  valuables.  When  she  had  got  free  of  this  good-for- 
nothing,  my  mother  dismissed  my  father's  hounds,  excepting 
one  exceedingly  ugly  brute  named  Joli.  He  found  favor  in 
her  eyes,  because,  though  worthless  in  hunting,  he  promised 
to  make  a  good  watch  dog.  He  used  to  lie  in  the  vacant 
place  of  my  father's  old  caleche  ;  and  my  father  and  he  ex- 
changed meaning  looks  whenever  they  met.  "Ah,  poor  old 
Joli  !  "  my  father  would  say ;  and  Joli  answered  with  a  sad 
wag  of  his  tail.  I  believe  the  dog  was  a  humbug  ;  and  once, 
in  a  fit  of  ill  humor,  when  his  favorite  made  a  great  howling 
over  a  kick,  my  father  vowed  the  scamp  was  making 
believe.  At  last  he  grew  mangy,  and  such  a  walking  maga- 
zine of  fleas  that  he  had  to  be  drowned — to  which  my  father 
made  no  objection.  Men  sacrifice  their  fourfooted  favorites 
with  the  same  indifference  princes  show  for  their  tvvofooted 
ones. 

From  his  campaigning  times  also  dates  my  father's  bound- 
less love  for  the  calling  of,  or  rather  for  playing  at,  soldiering ; 
his  delight  at  the  gay,  idle  life,  where  a  gold  and  scarlet  outside 
hides  the  emptiness  within,  and  vanity  masquerades  as  cour- 
age. In  the  surroundings  of  his  youth  there  was  no  real  mili- 
tary zeal  or  desire  for  fame — to  say  nothing  of  heroism.  The 
important  things  were  guard-mounting,  jingling  accouterments, 
and  the  close-fitting  uniform  which  is  so  becoming  to  a  fine 
figure. 

How  delighted  my  father  was  when  the  Burghers'  Guard 
was  established  in  Diisseldorf ;  and,  as  an  officer  of  it,  he  could 
wear  the  handsome  dark  blue  uniform,  with  sky  blue  velvet 
facings,  and  march  past  our  house  at  the  head  of  his  column. 
He  would  most  courteously  salute  my  mother,  standing  blush- 
ing at  the  window,  the  feather  in  his  three-cornered  hat  flut- 
tering bravely,  and  his  epaulets  glancing  merrily  in  the  sun. 

And  better  yet,  when  his  turn  came  as  commanding  officer 
of  the  Grand  Guard  to  look  after  the  safety  of  the  city.  On 
those  days,  RUdesheimer  and  Assmannshauser  of  the  best 


Father's  ^Disposition.  33 


years  flowed  freely  for  the  Grand  Guard  —  and  all  at  the 
charge  of  the  commander,  whose  liberality  his  fellow  guards- 
men, tag,  rag,  and  bobtail,  could  not  find  words  enough  to 
praise.  His  popularity  with  them  was  fully  as  great  as  Napo- 
leon's with  the  Old  Guard.  He,  to  be  sure,  found  other  ways 
of  intoxicating  his  guard.  My  father's  was  very  bold,  espe- 
cially when  called  upon  to  charge  a  battery  of  bottles  of  the 
largest  caliber.  It  was  a  different  sort  of  heroism  from  that 
of  the  Old  Guard  —  for  instead  of  dying  and  never  surrender- 
ing, this  Guard  continued  to  live,  and  was  forced  to  "  give 
up  "  very  often. 

As  to  the  safety  of  the  city,  it  was  no  doubt  well  looked 
after  on  the  nights  when  my  father  was  in  command.  He 
was  careful  to  send  out  patrols,  who  went  singing  and  jin- 
gling through  the  streets  in  all  directions.  On  one  occasion  it 
happened  that  two  of  these  met,  and  each  tried  to  arrest  the 
other  as  roisterers  and  disturbers  of  the  peace.  Luckily  my 
fellow  countrymen  are  harmless,  goodnatured  folk,  and  amiable 
in  their  cups  —  Us  ont  le  vin  bon  —  and  no  harm  came  of  it. 
Both  sides  surrendered. 

An  exuberant  love  of  life  was  a  leading  trait  in  my  father's 
disposition  ;  he  loved  pleasure,  was  cheerful  and  lighthearted. 
It  was  ever  holiday  in  his  breast,  and  if  no  better  music  could 
be  found,  the  fiddles  were  always  playing  a  jig  ;  the  sun  was 
always  shining,  and  all  was  gay.  A  mind  free  from  care,  for- 
getting yesterday  and  careless  of  to-morrow. 

This  disposition  was  in  curious  contrast  with  the  gravity  of 
his  strong  countenance,  and  his  bearing  and  motions.  A 
stranger,  seeing  for  the  first  time  that  stern  countenance  with 
its  powdered  locks  and  solemn  air,  might  have  taken  him  for 
one  of  the  seven  wise  men  of  Greece.  Nearer  acquaintance 
proved  him  neither  a  Thales  nor  a  Pittacus,  deep  in  problems 
of  cosmogony.  This  gravity  was  not  affected  ;  but  reminded 
one  of  those  antique  bas-reliefs,  where  a  laughing  child  holds 
a  great  tragic  mask  before  his  face. 

He  was  in  truth  a  great  child,  with  a  childish  simplicity, 
which  over-solemn  folk  might  mistake  for  weakness,  but  often 
showed  itself  capable  of  wise  intuitions.  His  mind  seemed  to 
have  feelers,  by  which  he  arrived  at  conclusions  which  wiser 
people  reached  by  reflection.  He  thought  more  with  his  heart 
than  his  head,  and  had  the  warmest  heart  that  can  be  con- 
ceived. The  smile,  that  often  played  round  his  lips  in  strange 
contrast  to  the  gravity  I  have  spoken  of,  was  the  swift  reflec- 


34  Kith  and  Kin. 


tion  of  his  kind  soul.  Even  his  voice,  though  manly  and 
resonant,  had  something  childlike  in  it — I  had  almost  said 
like  the  woodnote  of  a  redbreast — and  when  he  spoke,  it  went 
straight  to  the  heart,  as  if  it  need  not  pass  through  the  ear. 

He  spoke  the  dialect  of  Hanover,  where,  and  in  the  neigh- 
borhood to  the  south,  the  best  German  is  spoken.  From  my 
childhood  it  was  a  good  lesson  for  me  to  hear  good  German 
from  my  father's  lips,  while  in  our  town  they  talked  the  horrid 
jargon  of  the  lower  Rhine — which  is  still  bearable  in  Diissel- 
dorf,  but  becomes  terrible  in  Cologne.  Cologne  is  the  Tus- 
cany of  a  classical  bad  German  that  sounds,  and  almost  smells, 
like  breaking  rotten  eggs. 

In  the  Diisseldorf  dialect  an  approach  can  be  observed  to 
the  croaking  of  the  Dutch  marshes.  I  will  not  deny  that  the 
Dutch  language  may  have  beauties  of  its  own  ;  but  I  confess 
that  I  have  no  ear  for  them.  It  may  be  that  our  German  is, 
as  patriotic  linguists  in  the  Netherlands  declare,  only  a  cor- 
rupted Dutch.  It  may  be. 

And  this  reminds  me  of  a  cosmopolitan  zoologist,  who  con- 
sidered apes  the  progenitors  of  the  human  race.  According 
to  him,  men  are  cultivated,  overcultivated,  apes.  If  apes 
could  speak  they  would  doubtless  declare  men  merely  degen- 
erate apes,  and  humanity  a  corrupted  apehood — as  the  Dutch 
think  that  German  is  a  corrupted  Dutch, 

I  say,  if  apes  could  speak  ;  but  I  am  not  persuaded  they 
cannot.  The  negroes  of  Senegal  stoutly  maintain  that  apes 
are  people,  just  as  much  as  we  are — only  cleverer,  as  they  do 
not  speak  for  fear  of  being  recognized  as  people,  and  made 
to  work  ;  and  play  their  monkey-tricks  only  to  persuade  the 
rulers  of  the  earth  that  they  are  not  worthy  of  being  taxed  as 
we  others  are. 

Such  an  absence  of  vanity  gives  me  a  high  opinion  of  these 
folk,  who  keep  a  dumb  incognito,  and  no  doubt  chuckle  over 
our  simplicity.  They  live  free  in  their  woods,  holding  fast  to 
their  natural  condition.  They  may  well  believe  that  men  are 
degenerate  apes. 

Our  ancestors  may  have  had  the  same  idea  in  the  eighteenth 
century  ;  and,  instinctively  recognizing  that  our  polished  over- 
civilization  was  merely  varnished  corruption  and  that  it  was 
necessary  to  go  back  to  nature,  they  strove  to  draw  nearer  to 
the  archtype,  primitive  apehood.  They  did  their  best ;  and 
as  the  one  thing  they  needed  to  be  perfect  apes  was  a  tail,  they 
fastened  one  to  their  heads.  The  fashion  of  bags  is  then  a 


Why  I  was  called  Harry.  35 

plain  sign  of  earnest  endeavor,  and  no  mere  freak  of  frivolity — 
but  I  shake  my  bells  in  vain ;  their  noise  will  not  drown  the 
grief  I  feel  when  I  think  of  my  father. 

He  was  of  all  on  earth  the  one  I  loved  best.  He  has  been 
dead  now  for  twenty-five  years.  I  never  thought  I  should  lose 
him,  and  even  now  can  hardly  believe  I  have  lost  him.  It  is 
so  hard  to  persuade  yourself  of  the  death  of  people  whom  you 
really  love.  But  they  do  not  die — they  live  in  us  and  dwell 
in  our  hearts. 

There  is  never  a  night  that  I  do  not  think  of  my  father  ; 
and  when  I  wake  in  the  morning,  I  often  fancy  I  hear  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  like  the  echo  of  a  dream.  And  then  I  feel 
as  if  I  must  hurry  on  my  clothes  and  go  to  my  father  in  the 
great  room,  as  I  did  when  I  was  a  boy. 

My  father  always  rose  early,  and  sat  down  to  his  work, 
winter  and  summer  alike  ;  and  I  generally  found  him  at  his 
writing  table,  where,  without  looking  up,  he  held  out  his  hand 
for  me  to  kiss.  A  handsome,  well  formed,  elegant  hand,  which 
he  always  washed  with  almond  meal.  I  see  it  now — I  see  the 
blue  veins  hi  that  marble-white  hand.  The  scent  of  the 
almonds  rises  in  my  nose,  and  my  eyes  are  wet. 

Sometimes  there  was  more  than  a  kiss  of  the  hand,  and  my 
father  took  me  between  his  knees  and  kissed  my  forehead. 
One  morning,  he  put  his  arms  round  me  with  unwonted  ten- 
derness, and  said,  "  I  had  a  nice  dream  about  you  last  night, 
and  am  pleased  with  you,  dear  Harry."  As  he  spoke  the 
the  words,  a  smile  played  round  his  lips,  that  seemed  to  say, 
"If  Harry  misbehaves  in  reality,  I  will  have  pleasant  dreams 
about  him,  and  love  him."  • 

Harry  is  the  familiar  name  of  Englishmen  called  Henry, 
and  so  corresponds  to  my  Christian  name  Heinrich.  The 
nicknames  of  the  latter  in  my  home-dialect  are  all  ugly,  almost 
contemptuous,  as,  for  example,  Heinz,  Heinzchen,  Hinz.  The 
house-sprite  is  often  called  Heinzchen  ;  and  the  cat  with  the 
seven-leagued  boots  in  the  nursery  story,  and,  worse  than  all, 
the  cat  in  the  folk-song,  are  "  Hinze." 

But  it  was  not  to  avoid  any  such  difficulty,  but  in  compli- 
ment to  one  of  his  best  friends  in  England,  that  my  father 
anglicized  my  name.  Mr.  Harry  was  my  father's  correspond- 
ent in  Liverpool ;  and  he  knew  the  best  manufacturers  of 
velveteen,  an  article  of  commerce  very  dear  to  my  father,  from 
ambition  rather  than  interest.  For,  although  he  declared 
that  he  could  make  a  great  deal  of  money  out  of  the  article,  it 


36  Kith  and  Kin. 


was  a  doubtful  success  ;  and  my  father  would,  I  believe,  rrave 
spent  money,  if  necessary,  to  sell  better  and  more  velveteen 
than  his  rivals.  For  he  had  no  business  talent,  though  he  was 
always  at  his  accounts  ;  and  business  was  an  amusement  with 
him,  as  children  play  at  being  soldiers  or  cooks. 

It  was  enough  for  him  if  he  could  only  be  busy.  Velveteen 
was  his  hobby  ;  and  he  was  happy  when  the  great  pack-wagons 
were  unladen,  and  the  whole  floor  filled  with  the  Jew  traders 
of  the  neighborhood,  his  best  customers,  who  not  only  bought 
most  velveteen,  but  thought  more  highly  of  it  than  other 
people. 

Now,  as  my  father's  friend  who  knew  most  about  buying 
velveteen  was  named  Harry,  I  inherited  his  name,  and  was 
called  Harry  by  the  family  and  friends  and  neighbors. 

I  like  to  be  called  so  now,  though  the  name  was  the  cause 
of  sad  annoyance  to  me — perhaps  the  greatest  annoyance 
I  suffered  in  my  childhood.  It  is  only  now,  when  I  am  no 
longer  among  the  living,  and  all  vanity  is  dead  within  me, 
that  I  can  speak  of  this  freely. 

On  my  arrival  here  in  Paris,  my  German  name  Heinrich  was 
translated  into  Henri,  and  I  had  to  get  used  to  it  and  even 
adopt  it  here,  for  the  word  Heinrich  is  unpleasant  to  French 
ears,  and  Frenchmen  consult  their  own  convenience  in  every- 
thing. They  have  not  even  learned  to  pronounce  the  name 
Henri  Heine  properly  ;  and  most  people  call  me  M.  Enri 
Enn,  while  many  run  it  all  together  as  Enrienne,  and  some 
call  me  Un  rien. 

This  sometimes  annoys  me  in  literature,  but  it  has  some  ad- 
vantages. For  instance,  among  my  worthy  compatriots  who 
come  to  Paris  there  are  some  who  want  to  abuse  me  ;  but,  as 
they  pronounce  my  name  in  the  German  fashion,  it  never 
occurs  to  the  French  that  the  miscreant  they  are  railing  at,  who 
poisons  the  fountains  of  innocence,  is  no  other  than  their 
friend  M.  Enrienne  ;  and  the  worthy  souls  give  the  reins  to 
their  virtuous  zeal  all  in  vain.  The  French  do  not  know  that 
I  am  in  question  ;  and  virtue  from  over  the  Rhine  shoots  its 
pellets  of  calumny  to  no  purpose. 

But  there  is  something  unpleasant  in  having  one's  name 
mispronounced.  Some  people  are  made  very  angry  by  it.  I 
sometimes  amused  myself  by  asking  old  Cherubini  if  it  was  true 
that  the  Emperor  Napoleon  always  called  him  Sherubini,  and 
not  Kerubini — although  the  emperor  knew  Italian  well 
enough  to  know  that  ch  is  pronounced  like  k.  The  great 


Harree!  37 

matstro  used  to  sputter  with  rage  at  the  question  in  a  very 
comical  way. 

I  have  never  felt  so  myself. 

Heinrich,  Harry,  Henri — they  all  sound  pleasantly  from 
pretty  lips.  Best  of  all  is  Signer  Enrico.  That  was  my 
name  in  those  clear  blue  summer  nights  spangled  with  stars,  in 
the  noble  and  unfortunate  land  which  is  the  home  of  beauty, 
and  the  birthplace  of  Raphael  Sanzio  of  Urbino,  Giaccomo 
Rossini,  and  the  Princess  Christiana  Belgiojoso. 

As  the  state  of  my  health  forbids  all  hope  of  my  ever  living 
in  society,  which  in  fact  no  longer  exists  for  me,  I  have  cast 
off  the  fetters  of  personal  vanity  that  weigh  upon  all  who  go 
about  in  the  world.  And  so  I  can  speak  with  a  free  heart 
of  the  annoyance  connected  with  my  name  of  Harry,  which 
embittered  and  empoisoned  the  fairest  days  of  my  youth. 

The  circumstances  were  as  follows  :  In  my  native  town 
there  was  a  man  called  "  Mud  Michael,"  because  he  went 
through  the  streets  every  morning  with  a  cart  to  which  an  ass 
was  harnessed,  stopping  before  each  house  to  take  up  the 
rubbish  thrown  out  by  the  servants,  and  carry  it  out  of  town 
to  the  dirt  field.  The  man's  looks  fitted  his  business,  and  the 
ass,  who  looked  like  his  master,  stood  still  before  the  house  or 
moved  on,  according  to  the  tone  in  which  Michael  called  out 
to  him,  "Harree  !  " 

Was  that  his  name,  or  a  mere  cry  ?  I  do  not  know  ;  but 
I  do  know  this — that  the  resemblance  of  the  sound  with  my 
name  Harry  brought  on  me  a  terrible  amount  of  teasing  from 
my  schoolfellows  and  the  neighbor's  children.  They  annoyed 
me  by  calling  to  me  in  just  the  same  tones  that  Mud  Michael 
used  in  bawling  to  his  donkey  ;  and  if  I  got  angry,  the  rascals 
looked  as  innocent  as  possible,  and  begged  me,  in  order  to 
avoid  all  mistake,  to  show  them  how  my  name  and  the  jack- 
ass's ought  to  be  pronounced  ;  vowed  they  could  not  under- 
stand why  Michael  usually  drawled  the  first  syllable  and  cut 
the  second  short — while  at  other  times,  it  was  just  the  oppo- 
site, and  the  cry  sounded  just  like  my  name.  And  as  the  boys 
mixed  everything  up  in  the  most  senseless  fashion,  confounding 
me  with  the  ass  and  the  ass  with  me,  the  result  was  a  wild 
coq-a-rdne,  which  made  the  others  laugh  and  drove  me  to  tears. 
When  I  complained  to  my  mother,  she  only  told  me  to  be  dili- 
gent and  learn  as  fast  as  I  could  ;  and  then  people  would 
never  take  me  for  an  ass. 

But  it  was  a  continual  trial  to  me  that  my  name  and  the 


38  Kith  and  Kin. 


mangy  long-eared  beast's  should  be  the  same.  The  big  boys 
hailed  me  as  they  passed  with  "  Harree  ;"  and  the  little  ones 
echoed  the  cry  from  a  safe  distance.  In  school  the  same 
thing  went  on  with  refined  cruelty.  If  any  mention  was  made 
of  an  ass,  they  all  leered  at  me  till  I  grew  red.  It  is  incredi- 
ble how  ingenious  schoolboys  are  in  seizing  on  any  means  of 
tormenting. 

One  would  ask  another,  ''What  is  the  difference  between 
Balaam's  ass  and  a  zebra  ?  "  The  answer  was  that  one  spoke 
Hebrew  and  the  other  zebrew.  Then  came  the  question, 
"  What  is  the  difference  between  Mud  Michael's  ass  and  his 
namesake  ?  "  with  the  impudent  answer,  "  I  don't  see  any."  I 
wanted  to  fight  about  it  but  was  persuaded  to  keep  the  peace  ; 
and  my  friend  Dietrich,  who  could  draw  lovely  pictures  of 
saints  and  was  afterward  a  famous  painter,  comforted  me  on 
one  occasion  by  the  promise  of  a  picture.  He  painted  a  Saint 
Michael  for  me  ;  but  the  rascal,  to  make  fun  of  me,  gave  the 
archangel  Mud  Michael's  features,  mounted  him  on  his  don- 
key and  made  him  spearing  a  dead  cat  instead  of  a  dragon. 

The  fairhaired,  gentle,  girlish  Franz  too,  whom  I  loved 
dearly,  once  deceived  me  ;  for  he  put  his  arms  round  me, 
leaned  his  cheek  against  mine,  and  after  holding  me  in  a  long 
embrace  suddenly  roared  in  my  ear,  "  Harree  !  "  and  ran  off, 
making  thewhole  length  of  the  cloisters  ringwith  the  hateful  cry. 

I  fared  worse  yet  with  the  neighboring  children  of  the  lower 
classes,  such  as  we  called  "  Haluts  "  in  Diisseldorf — a  word 
that  the  curious  etymologist  will  probably  derive  from  the 
helots  of  Sparta.  One  of  these  Haluts,  was  little  Jupp — that 
is  Joseph  ;  but  I  must  give  his  father's  name  also — Flader — 
that  he  may  not  be  confounded  with  Jupp  Rorsch,  who  was 
a  nice  little  fellow  of  our  quarter,  and  who,  I  hear,  is  now  em- 
ployed in  the  post  office  at  Bonn.  Jupp  Flader  always  carried 
a  long  fishing  pole,  and  gave  me  a  cut  with  it  when  we  met. 
He  used  also  to  throw  horse  buns  at  me,  picking  them  up  in 
the  street,  warm  from  nature's  bakery.  And  he  never  failed 
to  add  a  fatal  "  Harree,"  in  all  sorts  of  tones. 

This  horrible  child  was  the  grandson  of  old  Frau  Flader, 
one  of  my  father's  pensioners.  She  was  as  kindly  as  he  was 
ill-natured— a  picture  of  poverty,  pitiable  but  not  repulsive. 
She  was,  I  should  judge,  past  eighty,  with  a  broad  flabby  face 
and  sad  eyes,  and  spoke  in  a  faint,  plaintive  voice;  but  she  said 
very  little  when  she  came  begging — which  always  moves  one's 
pity. 


Father's  Charities.  39 


My  father  always  gave  her  a  seat  when  she  came  to  get  her 
month's  money  on  his  days  for  distributing  alms.  Of  these  I 
only  remember  the  ones  that  occurred  in  winter,  early  in  the 
morning,  before  it  was  light.  My  father  sat  by  a  table,  with 
little  packets  of  money  of  various  sizes  before  him.  Instead 
of  the  silver  candlestick  and  wax  candles  which  he  ordinarily 
used,  and  which  his  thoughtful  heart  would  not  let  him  dis- 
play before  these  poor  people,  there  stood  on  the  table  two 
tallow  candles  in  copper  candlesticks,  whose  red  flames  and 
black  charred  wicks  cast  a  sad  light  over  the  assembled  crowd. 

They  were  of  all  ages,  and  stretched  back  in  a  line  as  far  as 
the  outer  room.  One  after  another  came  up  to  take  his  pack- 
age, and  many  of  them  got  two  ;  the  large  package  held  my 
father's  private  gift  ;  the  small  one,  the  alms  from  the  poorbox. 
I  sat  on  a  high  stool  by  my  father,  and  handed  him  the  pack- 
ages ;  for  my  father  wanted  me  to  learn  how  money  should  be 
given  in  charity,  and  he  was  a  most  admirable  example. 

There  are  many  with  hearts  in  the  right  place  who  do  not 
know  how  to  give  ;  it  takes  time  for  the  feelings  to  find  the  road 
to  the  pocket  ;  good  intentions  are  as  slow  as  the  snail-post  in 
arriving  at  good  deeds.  But  there  was  a  railroad  from  my 
father's  heart  to  his  pocket.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  such 
a  railroad  would  not  make  a  man's  fortune.  The  Northern 
or  the  Lyons  roads  pay  better  dividends. 

Most  of  my  father's  clients  were  women,  and  very  old  ;  and 
even  in  later  years,  when  things  had  begun  to  go  badly,  he  had 
a  long  list  of  female  pensioners.  They  lay  in  wait  for  him  in 
his  daily  walks  ;  so  that  he  had  a  body  guard  of  old  women, 
like  the  late  sainted  Robespierre. 

Among  them  were  a  good  many  old  sluts  who  did  not  come 
through  want  but  from  a  real  attachment  to  him  and  his 
friendly  ways.  For  he  was  politeness  personified  to  young 
and  old  ;  and  old  women,  who  take  such  offense  if  they  are 
slighted,  are  the  most  thankful  creatuers  for  attention  or  con- 
sideration. Those  who  like  to  be  paid  in  flattery  will  find  they 
give  it  most  ungrudgingly  ;  while  many  a  pert  young  girl  will 
hardly  give  a  nod  in  return  for  any  attention. 

As  handsome  men,  whose  specialty  it  is  to  be  handsome, 
feel  a  real  need  of  flattery,  without  much  caring  whether  the 
incense  comes  from  rosy  or  from  faded  lips,  if  it  only  be  strong 
enough,  it  will  be  believed  that  my  dear  father  drove  a  flour- 
ishing business  with  these  old  ladies  —  though  he  was  innocent 
of  counting  the  profits  beforehand.  It  was  wonderful  how 


40  Kith  and  Kin. 


strong  a  dose  of  incense  they  sometimes  offered  him,  and  how 
well  he  could  bear  it — thanks  to  his  happy  temperament,  cer- 
tainly not  to  his  credulity.  He  knew  perfectly  well  that  he 
was  being  flattered  :  but  he  knew  that  flattery,  like  sugar,  is 
always  sweet.  He  was  like  the  child  who  said  to  his  mother, 
"  Now  coax  me  a  little  ;  a  little  bit  too  much,  you  know." 

My  father's  relations  with  these  women  had  their  serious  side. 
He  was  their  adviser  in  everything ;  and  it  was  wonderful  that 
a  man  who  could  never  give  himself  good  counsel  could  advise 
others  so  well  when  they  were  in  trouble.  He  looked  at  the 
whole  case  ;  and  when  the  distressed  client  had  persuaded 
him  that  things  were  going  worse  and  worse  with  her,  he  had 
a  phrase,  which  I  have  often  heard  from  his  lips,  "  then  we  must 
tap  another  barrel."  Meaning  that  one  should  not  persist  in 
a  hopeless  course,  but  try  something  else,  in  some  other  di- 
rection— stave  in  the  head  of  the  cask,  if  you  cannot  get  any- 
thing but  a  few  drops  of  sour  wine  out  of  it,  and  "  tap  an- 
ther barrel."  Instead  of  which  men  are  too  apt  to  lie  under 
the  dribbling  spigot  with  their  mouths  open,  and  wait  in  hopes 
it  will  run  sweeter  and  faster. 

When  old  Hanne  declared  that  her  business  had  failed  her 
and  she  could  not  get  a  morsel  to  eat — nor,  what  she  minded 
more,  a  drop  to  drink — he  first  gave  her  a  thaler,  and  then 
thought  the  matter  over. 

Old  Hanne  had  been  an  excellent  midwife  ;  but  of  late  she 
had  begun  to  drink  a  little,  and  take  a  deal  of  snuff  ;  and 
she  generally  had  a  drop  on  her  nose,  which  sometimes  fell 
and  stained  the  clean  sheets.  So  the  old  woman  lost  all  her 
customers. 

When  he  had  thought  the  matter  over,  my  father  said  :  "We 
must  tap  a  new  barrel — and  it  had  better  be  a  barrel  of  brandy. 
I  advise  you  to  take  some  place  near  the  harbor,  where  the 
sailors  hang  about,  and  open  a  little  liquor  shop."  The  ex- 
midwife  took  his  advice,  and  set  up  a  drinking  place  near  the 
quay  ;  and  did  so  well  that  she  would  have  made  a  little  for- 
tune, if  she  had  not  been  her  own  best  customer.  I  have  often 
seen  her  standing  in  front  of  her  shop,  her  red  nose  in  the  air, 
a  living  sign  that  proved  irresistible  to  many  a  sailor. 

One  of  the  sweetest  things  about  my  father  was  the  polite- 
ness he  showed  to  all,  rich  and  poor.  I  used  to  notice,  on 
these  alms-days,  that  with  every  packet  he  gave  the  poor 
creatures  a  polite  word  or  two.  It  was  a  lesson  to  me  ;  and  a 
great  many  men,  of  well-known  benevolence,  who  throw  their 


Zippel  and  the  Witch .  41 

alms  at  people's  heads  as  if  they  meant  to  crack  their  skulls, 
might  have  learned  a  lesson  from  my  father's  politeness.  He 
always  asked  after  the  health  of  the  poorest  beggar  ;  and  was 
so  accustomed  to  use  the  phrase,  "  I  have  the  honor,"  that  he 
often  said  the  words  as  he  showed  some  saucy  trull  the  door. 

He  was  most  civil  to  old  Flader,  always  giving  her  a  seat, 
and  indeed  she  was  so  weak  in  the  legs  that  she  could  but 
just  get  along  with  two  canes.  The  last  time  that  she  came  for 
her  month's  money,  she  was  so  shaky  that  her  grandson  Jupp 
had  to  help  her  along.  He  gave  me  a  strange  look  when  he 
saw  me  at  the  table  by  my  father.  The  old  woman  received 
a  large 'private  packet  in  addition  to  the  small  one,  and  burst 
out  with  a  torrent  of  good  wishes  and  tears. 

It  is  terrible  to  see  an  old  woman  weep  so  bitterly,  and  I 
could  have  cried  myself,  as  she  no  doubt  saw.  She  could  not 
say  often  enough  what  a  sweet  boy  I  was,  and  vowed  she 
would  pray  to  the  Virgin  that  I  might  never  be  hungry  and 
have  to  beg  for  my  bread. 

My  father  was  rather  vexed  at  the  words  ;  but  the  old 
woman  meant  well.  She  looked  at  me  in  a  rather  ghostly 
fashion,  though  gently  and  kindly  ;  and  said  to  her  grandson, 
"  Run  and  kiss  the  good  little  boy's  hand."  Jupp  obeyed, 
though  with  rather  a  sour  face  ;  and  his  kiss  stung  me  like  a 
viper.  I  cannot  tell  why  I  did  it ;  but  I  pulled  all  the  coppers 
I  had  out  of  my  pocket,  and  handed  them  over  to  Jupp,  who 
counted  them  over  one  by  one  with  a  sheepish  air  and  put 
them  coolly  into  his  trousers'  pocket. 

Old  Flader  died  soon  after  ;  but  Jupp  must  be  alive,  unless 
he  has  been  hanged.  The  hateful  boy  did  not  alter  his  ways. 
I  met  him  in  the  street  the  very  next  morning,  with  his  long 
pole.  He  gave  me  a  slash  with  it,  flung  some  horse  buns  at 
me,  and  screamed  out  the  fatal  "  Harree  !  " — and  so  loud,  and 
so  exactly  in  Mud  Michael's  tone,  that  the  donkey,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  in  the  next  street,  took  it  for  his  master's  voice 
and  answered  with  a  joyous  hee-haw.  As  I  say  the  old  woman 
died  shortly  after,  with  the  reputation  of  being  a  witch  ;  which 
she  certainly  was  not,  though  our  Zippel  stoutly  maintained 
the  theory. 

Zippel,  properly  Sibylle,  was  a  woman  who  was  not  very  old, 
and  had  been  my  first  nurse,  and  afterward  remained  with  us. 
She  happened  to  be  in  the  room  on  the  morning  of  the  scene  I 
have  described,  when  old  Flader  had  praised  me  so  highly. 
When  Zippel  heard  it,  it  roused  the  old  superstition  in  her 


42  Kith  and  Kin. 


that  it  is  unlucky  for  a  child  to  hear  such  praises,  for  he  will 
surely  be  ill  or  meet  with  some  misfortune.  She  took  the  most 
approved  means  to  guard  me  from  such  evil  consequences  ; 
and,  springing  to  my  side,  spat  thrice  on  my  head. 

But  this  was  only  a  temporary  anointing.  The  knowing 
ones  believe  that  the  charm  of  a  witch's  praises  can  be  taken 
off  by  no  one  but  another  witch  ;  and  Zippel  determined  to 
go  that  very  afternoon  to  a  woman  who  was  well  known  to 
her  as  a  witch,  and  had,  as  I  afterward  learned,  done  her 
many  good  turns  by  the  forbidden  black  art.  With  her  thumb 
wet  with  spittle  this  witch  stroked  the  top  of  my  head,  and 
cut  some  hairs  from  it ;  then  stroked  me  again  in  various 
places,  muttering  some  nonsenical  abracadabra  ;  and  so,  for 
all  I  know,  I  was  consecrated  to  the  devil's  priesthood,  from 
my  early  youth. 

At  any  rate  this  woman,  with  whom  I  kept  up  an  acquaint- 
ance, afterward,  when  I  was  grown  up,  initiated  me  into  the 
black  art.  And  if  I  was  not  made  a  witch,  I  know  what 
witchery  is,  and  also  what  is  no  witchcraft. 

This  woman  was  called  the  Mistress,  or  the  Gochin,  as  she 
was  born  in  Goch,  where  her  deceased  husband,  who  followed 
the  infamous  trade  of  executioner,  had  his  domicile,  but  was 
summoned  from  far  and  near  to  carry  out  the  sentence  of  the 
law.  People  knew  he  had  bequeathed  many  secrets  to  his 
widow,  and  she  knew  how  to  make  the  most  of  them. 

Her  best  customers  were  the  tapsters,  to  whom  she  sold 
dead  men's  fingers,  supposed  to  have  been  left  by  her  hus- 
band. These  came  from  thieves  who  had  been  hanged,  and 
had  the  virtue  of  giving  a  good  flavor  to  a  cask  of  beer,  and 
making  it  hold  out  longer.  If  the  finger  of  a  hanged  man, 
especially  if  he  were  innocent,  was  suspended  by  a  thread  in 
the  cask,  the  beer  was  not  only  better,  but  twice  or  even  four 
times  as  much  could  be  drawn  from  it  as  from  ordinary  casks 
of  the  size.  Enlightened  tapsters  pursue  a  more  rational  plan 
to  increase  their  beer  ;  but  it  is  apt  to  weaken  it. 

The  Mistress  had  also  consolation  for  the  tender-hearted — 
supplying  them  with  love  potions,  which  in  her  rage  for  char- 
latan Latin  of  the  most  aggravated  kind  she  called  philtrariums. 
The  man  who  gave  his  girl  the  potion  she  called  the  philtra- 
rius,  and  the  woman  the  philtrariata. 

When,  as  sometimes  happened,  the  philtrarium  failed  to 
operate,  and  even  produced  a  contrary  effect,  the  Mistress 
saved  the  reputation  of  her  art  by  declaring  that  she  had  mis- 


"The  Sun  Tarings  Light  at  Last."  43 

understood  the  philtrarius,  and  thought  he  wanted  to  be 
cured  of  his  love. 

The  advice  she  gave  with  her  philters  was  of  more  value 
than  the  potions  themselves  ;  as  for  instance,  always  to  have 
a  piece  of  gold  in  your  pocket,  as  gold  is  healthy,  and  brings 
luck  to  lovers.  Who  does  not  remember  honest  lago's  words 
to  Rodrigo  ?  "  Put  money  in  thy  purse." 

Our  Zippel  was  great  friends  with  the  Mistress  ;  and  if  she 
no  longer  went  to  her  for  love  charms,  still  had  frequent 
recourse  to  her  art  when  she  wanted  to  be  revenged  on  a 
successful  rival  who  had  married  some  old  love  of  hers. 


"THE  SUN  BRINGS  LIGHT  AT  LAST!" 

That  was  the  burden  of  the  song 

My  nurse  was  ever  singing  : 

"  The  sun  brings  light  at  last  !  " — each  note 

Clear  as  a  bugle  ringing. 

It  was  the  tale  of  a  murderer  bold, 

Whose  life  was  revel  and  glee, 

Till  they  found  him  once  in  the  gay  greenwood, 

Hanged  on  a  willow  tree. 

They  hanged  him  there,  and  upon  the  stem 
They  nailed  his  sentence  fast, 
Those  sturdy  knaves  of  the  woodland  court : 
"  The  sun  brings  light  at  last !  " 

The  sun  had  led  them  over  the  hills, 
As  they  tracked  him  far  and  fast ; 
And  Otilia  sighed  with  her  latest  breath  : 
"  The  sun  brings  light  at  last !  " 

The  song  comes  back  to  me,  and  my  nurse 
Comes  back  too,  gray  and  old  ; 
I  see  once  more  her  kind  brown  face, 
With  many  a  wrinkle  and  fold. 

For  she  was  born  in  Miinster  town  ; 
And  for  winter  evenings  long, 
Full  many  a  story  of  ghosts  she  had, 
And  many  an  old  folk-song. 


44  Kith  and  Kin. 


And  my  heart  would  beat,  when  my  good  old  nurse 

Of  the  king's  fair  daughter  told, 

Who  sat  alone  on  the  wide,  wide  heath, 

With  her  hair  like  shining  gold. 


I  held  my  breath  to  catch  each  word 

Of  the  story  she  loved  to  sing, 

With  her  low,  sweet  voice,  of  good  Redbeardf 

And  how  he  was  once  our  king  ; 

And  how  she  knew  he  did  not  die, 
Whatever  the  wise  folk  say  ; 
But  lives  high  up  on  the  mountain-top, 
With  his  warriors  brave  and  gay. 


She  sang  full  low,  and  she  sang  full  sweet 
Those  tales  of  days  long  past — 
And  my  heart  beat  high,  and  echoed  the  words, 
"  The  sun  brings  light  at. last !  " 


CHAPTER  V. 
pale  5osepba. 

IT  was  no  witchcraft  that  sometimes  led  me  to  seek  the 
Cochin.  I  kept  up  an  acquaintance  with  her  ;  and  I  must 
have  been  some  sixteen  years  old  when  I  began  to  go  to  her 
house  oftener  than  before,  drawn  by  a  spell  stronger  than  all 
her  dog  Latin  philtrariums.  She  had  a  niece  who  was  hardly 
sixteen,  but  had  suddenly  shot  up  to  a  slim  height  that  made 
her  look  older.  Her  rapid  growth  accounted  for  her  leanness. 
She  had  the  slender  waist  we  see  in  the  West  Indian  quadroons  ; 
and  as  she  did  not  wear  corsets  and  a  dozen  petticoats,  her 
clinging  garments  were  like  the  wet  drapery  of  a  statue.  No 
marble  statue  could  vie  with  her  in  beauty,  as  every  rhythmical 
motion  revealed  the  graces  of  her  form  and,  I  may  say,  the 
music  of  her  soul.  Not  one  of  the  daughters  of  Niobe  had 
more  nobly  chiseled  features  ;  and  her  skin  was  of  an  ever 
varying  fair  hue.  Her  great  dark  eyes  looked  out  as  if  they 
had  asked  you  a  riddle  and  were  calmly  waiting  for  an  answer  : 
while  her  mouth,  with  its  small  curved  lips  and  somewhat 
long,  but  snow  white  teeth,  seemed  saying  "  You  are  dull,  and 
will  never  guess  it." 

Her  hair  was  red,  deep  red,  and  fell  on  her  shoulders  in 
long  locks,  so  that  she  could  tie  it  under  her  chin — and  when 
she  did  so,  it  looked  as  if  her  head  had  been  cut  off,  and  the 
red  blood  were  flowing  in  streams. 

"  Red  Sefchen,"  as  the  Cochin's  fair  niece  Josepha  was 
generally  called,  had  a  voice  whose  tones  were  usually  veiled  ; 
but  under  the  excitement  of  passion  it  had  a  metallic  ring  that 
affected  me,  especially  because  it  was  wonderfully  like  my 
own.  When  she  spoke  I  was  sometimes  startled,  and  thought 
I  was  hearing  myself  speak  ;  and  her  singing  reminded  me  of 
dreams  in  which  I  have  heard  myself  sing  in  the  same  tone  and 
style. 

She  knew  many  folk-songs,  and  my  fancy  for  them  was  per- 
haps awakened  by  her  ;  she  certainly  had  a  great  influence  on 
the  awakening  poet.  So  that  the  first  poems  of  my  "  Visions," 

45 


46  Tale  fosepha. 


which  I  wrote  soon  after,  took  a  somber  and  sinister  tone  from 
the  phantom  which  threw  its  gory  shadow  across  my  young 
life. 

Among  Josepha's  folk-songs  was  one  she  learned  of  Zippel, 
who  had  often  sung  it  to  me  in  my  childhood  ;  so  that  I  remem- 
ber two  verses  of  it,  which  I  will  quote,  as  I  do  not  find  it  in 
any  of  the  existing  collections  of  folk-songs.  It  ran  thus — 
the  cruel  Tragig  being  the  first  speaker  : 

"  Otilia  mine,  Otilia  dear, 
Thou  wouldst  not  be  the  last  one  here — 
Say,  wilt  thou  hang  on  the  lofty  tree  ? 
Or  wilt  thou  swim  in  the  ocean  blue  ? 
Or  wilt  thou  kiss  the  shining  sword, 
The  gift  of  our  ever  blessed  Lord  ?  " 

Whereupon  Otilia  answers : 

"  I  will  not  hang  on  the  lofty  tree, 
I  will  not  swim  in  ocean  blue  ; 
But  I  will  kiss  the  shining  sword, 
The  gift  of  our  ever  blessed  Lord." 

Once,  when  Red  Sefchen  was  singing  this  song,  and  came  to 
the  last  line  of  this  verse,  I  saw  she  was  deeply  moved  ;  and 
my  own  feelings  were  so  stirred  that  I  burst  into  tears.  We 
fell  weeping  into  each  other's  arms,  and  remained  for  a  full 
hour  without  exchanging  a  single  word,  the  tears  running  down 
our  cheeks,  gazing  on  each  other  through  a  mist  of  tears. 

I  begged  her  to  copy  off  the  song  for  me,  and  she  did  so  ; 
but  wrote  it  not  in  ink  but  in  her  blood.  I  lost  this  red  auto- 
graph afterward,  but  the  lines  are  fixed  in  my  memory  for 
ever. 

The  Cochin's  husband  was  the  brother  of  Sefchen's  father, 
who  also  had  been  an  executioner  ;  but  as  he  died  early,  the 
Gochin  took  the  little  child  home.  But  when  her  husband 
died  soon  after,  and  she  moved  to  Diisseldorf,  she  gave  the 
child  to  the  grandfather,  also  an  executioner,  who  lived  in 
Westphalia. 

There,  in  the  "  free  house,"  as  the  headsman's  is  called, 
Sefchen  lived  till  her  fourteenth  year,  when  her  grandfather 
died  and  the  Gochin  again  took  the  orphaned  child. 

Through  the  stain  on  her  birth  Sefchen  led  a  lonely  life,  and 
was  cut  off  from  all  companionship  in  her  grandfather's  free 


The  Free  House.  47 


house.  Hence  her  sensitive  shrinking  from  all  strangers,  her 
secret  reveries,  her  sturdy  defiance,  and  insolent,  untamable 
obstinacy. 

Strange  !  Even  in  her  dreams,  she  told  me,  she  never  was 
living  with  people,  but  dreamed  only  of  animals. 

In  that  lonely  free  house  she  had  no  companions  but  her 
grandfather's  old  books ;  and  though  he  taught  her  to  read 
and  write,  he  was  sparing  of  speech.  He  and  his  aids  were 
often  absent  for  days  at  a  time  ;  and  the  child  was  left  alone 
in  the  free  house,  which  stood  in  a  retired  place  in  the  woods 
near  the  gallows.  No  one  was  in  the  house  but  three  old 
women  with  nodding  heads,  who  sat  at  their  whirring  spinning 
wheels,  coughing,  snarling  at  each  other,  and  drinking  brandy. 

Especially  on  winter  nights,  when  the  wind  moaned  through 
the  old  oaks  and  the  blazing  chimney  roared  so  strangely,  poor 
Sefchen  felt  lonely  in  the  deserted  house.  They  dreaded  visits 
from  thieves — not  living  ones,  but  dead  and  hanged  ones,  who 
came  down  from  the  gallows,  and  tapped  at  the  low  window 
to  be  let  in  to  warm  themselves.  They  made  awful  mouths 
with  their  frozen  faces.  The  only  way  to  send  them  off  was 
to  fetch  one  of  the  headsman's  swords  from  the  armory,  and 
threaten  them  with  that ;  then  they  whirled  off  like  a  great 
gust  of  wind.  They  often  came  for  something  more  than 
to  warm  themselves  at  the  fire,  and  wanted  to  steal  back  the 
fingers  that  the  headsman  had  stolen  from  them.  And  if  the 
door  was  not  fast  bolted,  they  played  their  old  thievish  pranks, 
dead  as  they  were,  and  stole  the  sheets  from  the  presses  and 
beds.  One  of  the  old  women,  who  once  caught  a  dead  thief 
in  the  act,  ran  after  him  and  seized  the  fluttering  sheet  by  one 
corner,  just  as  the  thief  had  reached  the  gallows,  and  was 
going  to  climb  to  the  top. 

On  the  days  when  the  grandfather  was  getting  ready  to 
carry  out  some  great  sentence,  his  colleagues  from  the  towns 
roundabout  came  to  visit  him  ;  and  then  there  was  boiling 
and  baking,  stuffing  and  guzzling — but  little  talking  and  no 
singing.  Their  drinking-cups  were  of  silver  ;  but  the  despised 
"  free-master  "  and  his  aids  never  got  anything  at  the  tavern 
they  frequented  but  a  flagon  with  a  wooden  cover,  while  the 
other  guests  had  mugs  with  pewter  tops.  In  many  places  the 
glass  that  the  headsman  had  used  was  broken.  No  man  spoke 
to  him,  or  would  even  brush  against  him.  This  contempt 
extended  to  all  his  kindred  ;  so  that  the  families  of  headsmen 
married  only  among  themselves. 


48  Vale  fosepha. 


When  Sefchen  was  about  eight  years  old,  she  told  me,  on 
one  fine  autumn  day,  an  unusually  large  party  of  guests 
arrived  at  the  farmhouse,  though  no  execution  or  other  sen- 
tence was  to  be  carried  out.  They  were  more  than  a  dozen, 
almost  all  very  old  men  with  gray  or  bald  heads  ;  and  under 
their  red  cloaks  they  had  their  long  swords,  and  their  finest, 
though  very  old-fashioned,  clothes.  They  had  come,  as  they 
said,  to  spend  the  day  ;  and  the  midday  meal  set  before  them 
was  of  the  best  that  the  kitchen  and  cellar  could  furnish. 

They  were  the  oldest  executioners  from  all  the  most  dis- 
tant parts,  and  had  not  met  for  a  long  time.  There  was  a 
great  shaking  of  hands,  but  little  speech,  and  that  often  in  a 
language  of  unintelligible  signs — and  they  amused  themselves 
after  their  own  fashion,  that  is  moult  tristement,  as  Froissart 
says  of  the  English  at  their  feast  after  the  battle  of  Poictiers. 

When  night  fell,  the  master  turned  his  servants  out  of  doors  ; 
and  bade  the  old  women  bring  three  dozen  flasks  of  the  best 
wine  from  the  cellar,  and  set  them  on  the  stone  table  that 
stood  before  the  semicircle  of  old  oaks.  He  ordered  the  iron 
stands  for  the  pine  torches  to  be  carried  out  there,  and  finally 
sent  the  three  old  women  out  of  the  house  on  some  pretext.  He 
even  threw  a  horse-blanket  over  the  watch-dog's  kennel,  where 
the  planks  did  not  quite  join,  and  saw  that  he  was  fast  chained 
up. 

The  grandfather  let  Red  Sefchen  stay  in  the  house,  and  bade 
her  scour  bright  the  great  silver  goblet  with  the  sea  gods  and 
their  dolphins  and  conch  shells,  and  put  it  on  the  same  stone 
table  ;  then,  with  some  embarrassment,  he  told  her  to  go  at 
once  to  her  room  and  to  bed. 

Red  Sefchen  dutifully  cleaned  the  Neptune  cup,  and  set  it 
on  the  table  by  the  flasks  of  wine,  but  did  not  go  to  bed  ;  she 
was  so  curious  that  she  hid  behind  a  bush  near  the  oaks, 
where  she  could  not  hear  much,  but  could  see  all  that  hap- 
pened. 

The  strangers,  with  her  grandfather  at  their  head,  came 
solemnly,  two  and  two,  and  sat  themselves  down  on  the 
wooden  blocks  round  the  stone  table  ;  and  the  pine  torches 
cast  a  sinister  light  on  their  stern  and  earnest  faces. 

For  a  long  time  they  sat  in  silence,  or  only  muttering  to 
themselves  as  if  in  prayer.  Then  her  grandfather  filled  the 
goblet  with  wine  ;  and  each  one  drank  it  off,  and  filled  it 
again,  and  passed  it  to  his  neighbor  ;  and  after  each  draft 
they  shook  hands  heartily. 


<i/J  Strange  Scene.  49 


Then  the  grandfather  made  a  speech,  of  which  Sefchen 
could  not  hear  much,  and  understood  nothing.  But  it  was 
apparently  on  some  sad  topic,  for  the  big  drops  fell  from  the 
old  man's  eyes,  and  the  other  old  men  wept  bitterly  ;  and  it 
was  dreadful  to  see  these  men,  who  looked  as  hard  and 
weather-beaten  as  the  stone  faces  round  a  church  door,  with 
tears  running  from  their  stony  eyes,  and  sobbing  like  children. 

Meanwhile  the  moon  looked  sadly  down  from  a  cloudy  and 
starless  sky,  and  the  little  listener's  heart  was  ready  to  burst 
with  pity.  She  felt  most  for  one  little  old  man  who  wept  more 
than  anyone,  and  complained  so  loudly  that  his  words  came 
clearly  to  her  ears,  as  he  cried  out  again  and  again  :  "  O  God  ! 
O  God  !  The  misery  is  too  long  ;  a  man  cannot  bear  it  longer. 
O  God  !  you  are  unjust  ;  aye,  unjust  !  "  His  friends  could 
hardly  quiet  him. 

At  last  all  rose  from  their  seats,  and  cast  off  their  red 
mantles  ;  each  took  his  long  sword  under  his  arm,  and  two 
by  two  they  walked  to  a  tree,  under  which  a  spade  lay  ready, 
and  with  it  one  of  them  quickly  dug  a  deep  grave.  Then 
Sefchen's  grandfather  drew  near  ;  but  he  had  not  put  aside 
his  cloak  like  the  others  ;  and  from  beneath  it  he  drew  a 
package,  narrow,  but  a  good  Brabant  ell  in  length,  wrapped  in 
a  sheet.  This  he  laid  with  great  care  in  the  grave,  and 
hastily  filled  it  up. 

Poor  Sefchen  could  no  longer  bear  to  stay  in  her  hiding- 
place  ;  when  she  saw  this  secret  burial,  her  hair  rose  on  her 
head,  and  terror  drove  her  from  the  spot.  She  ran  to  her 
chamber,  and  hid  beneath  the  bedclothes ;  and  at  last  fell 
asleep. 

The  next  morning  all  this  seemed  like  a  dream  to  Sefchen  ; 
but  the  freshly  dug  earth  beneath  the  tree  showed  her  that  it 
was  real.  She  wondered  for  a  long  time  what  it  could  be 
that  was  buried  there — a  child  ?  an  animal  ?  a  treasure  ?  But 
she  told  no  one  of  the  night's  doings,  and  as  years  went  by  it 
began  to  fade  from  her  memory. 

When  her  grandfather  died  five  years  after,  and  the  Gochin 
came  to  take  the  girl  back  with  her  to  Diisseldorf,  she  ven- 
tured to  open  her  heart  to  her  aunt.  She  seemed  neither 
surprised  nor  shocked  at  the  strange  story,  but  greatly 
rejoiced  ;  and  told  her  that  it  was  no  child  nor  beast  nor 
treasure  that  had  been  buried,  but  her  grandfather's  old 
sword  of  justice,  with  which  he  had  beheaded  a  hundred 
poor  sinners ;  and  that  it  was  the  custom  for  the  headsman, 


50  T^ale  J~osepba. 


when  he  had  performed  a  hundred  executions  with  one  sword, 
to  use  or  keep  it  no  longer ;  for  such  a  sword  was  not  like 
other  swords,  but  had  acquired  a  soul  through  its  long  years 
of  service,  and  must  finally  be  laid  to  rest  in  a  grave  like  a 
mortal  being. 

And  many  believed  that  such  swords  grew  cruel  by  shed- 
ding so  much  blood,  and  longed  for  more,  and  could  be  heard 
in  the  closet  where  they  hung,  impatiently  moving  and  rattling  ; 
and  some  were  as  cunning  and  malicious  as  we  are  ;  and  put 
a  spell  on  anyone  who  handled  them,  so  that  he  would  wound 
his  best  friend.  One  brother  had  wounded  another  thus,  in 
the  Gochin's  own  family.  But  the  Gochin  adtled  that  with 
one  of  these  hundred-death  swords  you  could  work  most 
wonderful  spells  ;  and  she  did  not  fail  that  very  night  to  dig 
up  the  buried  sword  from  under  the  tree  ;  and  kept  it  ever 
after  with  other  magical  things  in  her  store-closet. 

On  one  occasion  when  she  was  not  at  home,  I  begged 
Sefchcn  to  show  me  this  curiosity.  She  readily  consented  ; 
and  going  into  the  closet  brought  out  a  huge  sword,  which 
she  whirled  skillfully  through  the  air,  in  spite  of  her  slender 
arms,  singing  all  the  while  in  a  mocking  tone : 

"  Wilt  thou  kiss  the  shining  sword, 
The  gift  of  our  ever  blessed  Lord  ? " 

I  answered  her  in  the  same  tone  :  "  I  will  not  kiss  the 
shining  sword,  the  gift  of  our  ever  blessed  Lord — I  will  kiss 
Red  Sefchen  !  "  And  as  she  could  not  defend  herself,  for  fear 
of  wounding  me  with  the  fatal  sword,  she  had  to  submit  when 
I  threw  my  arms  round  her  slender  waist,  and  gave  her  a 
hearty  kiss  on  the  proud  lips.  So,  in  spite  of  the  great  sword 
that  had  beheaded  a  hundred  poor  rogues,  and  in  spite  of  the 
infamy  that  fell  on  anyone  who  touched  one  of  the  despised 
race,  I  kissed  the  fair  daughter  of  the  headsman. 

I  kissed  her,  not  altogether  because  I  fancied  her,  but  also 
from  my  scorn  of  the  old  society  and  its  blind  prejudices  ; 
and  then  were  kindled  within  me  the  first  sparks  of  two  pas- 
sions to  which  my  latter  life  has  been  devoted — a  love  of 
fair  women  and  a  love  for  the  French  Revolution,  the  mod- 
ern furor  fra ncese,  which  seized  on  me  in  my  struggle  with 
the  soldiers  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

I  will  not  minutely  relate  my  loves  with  Josepha.  But  I  will 
confess  this  much,  that  it  was  but  a  prelude  to  the  greater 


Cure  for  Lome.  5 1 

tragedies  of  my  riper  years.  It  was  thus  Romeo  felt  toward 
Rosalind  before  he  met  Juliet. 

In  love  as  well  as  in  the  Catholic  religion  there  are  prelimi- 
nary purgatorial  fires,  in  which  a  man  gets  used  to  being 
roasted  before  getting  into  the  real  everlasting  hell. 

Hell !  Ought  we  to  call  love  anything  so  impolite  ?  Well, 
if  you  like,  I  will  compare  it  to  heaven.  Unfortunately,  you 
can  never  tell  just  when  love  begins  to  be  more  like  heaven  or 
hell  ;  so  that  one  hardly  knows  whether  the  angel  who  is  by 
our  side  is  a  devil  in  disguise,  or  the  devil  is  a  disguised 
angel. 

To  speak  the  truth,  what  a  terrible  disease  the  love  for 
women  is  !  No  inoculation  is  of  any  use.  Wise  and  learned 
physicians  prescribe  change  of  place,  and  think  that  absence 
from  the  enchantress  will  break  the  enchantment.  The 
homeopathic  doctrine  that  woman  cures  us  of  woman  is  per- 
haps the  most  effective. 

You  will  have  noticed,  dear  reader,  that  the  inoculation  of 
love,  which  my  mother  tried  in  my  childhood,  is  of  no  great 
service.  It  was  written  that  I  should  suffer  more  than  other 
mortals  from  that  terrible  evil,  palpitations  of  the  heart  ;  and 
my  heart  has  so  many  badly  healed  scars  that  it  looks  like  a 
mask  of  Mirabeau's  face,  or  the  fa£ade  of  the  Palais  Maza- 
rin  after  the  glorious  days  of  July,  or  like  the  reputation  of 
the  greatest  tragic  actress. 

Is  there  then  no  cure  for  the  fatal  infirmity  ?  A  psycholo- 
gist has  lately  declared  that  a  man  can  overcome  it,  if  he  will 
apply  appropriate  remedies  at  the  beginning  of  the  attack. 
The  prescription  reminds  me  of  the  simple  old  prayer 
book,  which  contains  prayers  against  all  sorts  of  evils  ;  among 
others,  one  several  pages  long,  which  a  slater  must  recite 
when  overcome  by  dizziness  and  in  danger  of  falling  from  a  roof. 

It  is  just  as  foolish  to  advise  a  lovesick  man  to  fly  from  the 
sight  of  his  adored  one,  and  seek  a  cure  in  solitude  and  the 
bosom  of  nature.  Alas,  in  that  green  bosom  he  will  find 
nothing  but  weariness  ;  and  he  would  do  better,  if  he  has  any 
energy  left,  to  seek  other  and  whiter  bosoms,  where  he  will 
find,  if  not  rest,  a  healing  unrest — for  woman  is  the  best  anti- 
dote to  woman.  To  be  sure,  this  is  driving  out  Satan  with 
Beelzebub,  and  in  such  cases  the  remedy  is  often  worse  than 
the  disease,  But  there  is  always  a  chance  ;  and  in  a  hope- 
less love  affair  a  change  of  the  inamorata  is  the  wisest  plan, 
and,  as  my  father  would  say,  we  must  tap  a  new  barrel. 


52  Tale  fosepha. 


Let  us  go  back  to  my  dear  father,  to  whom  some  kind 
old  motherly  soul  had  denounced  my  frequent  visits  to  the 
Gochen  and  my  fancy  for  Red  Sefchen.  The  denunciation  had 
no  other  effect  than  to  give  my  father  a  chance  of  showing 
his  kind  politeness.  For  Sefchen  soon  told  me  that  a  very 
distinguished  looking  man  in  powder,  accompanied  by  another, 
had  met  her  on  the  promenade  :  and  when  the  other  whispered 
a  word  in  his  ear,  had  given  her  a  friendly  glance  and  raised 
his  hat  as  he  passed  her. 

From  the  description  I  recognized  my  dear,  good  father. 

He  did  not  show  the  same  forbearance,  when  someone 
repeated  to  him  some  light  remarks  on  religious  subjects 
that  had  escaped  me.  I  was  charged  with  atheism  ;  and  my 
father  gave  me  a  lecture  which  was  the  longest  I  ever  heard 
from  him,  and  ran  as  follows  : 

"  My  dear  son,  your  mother  lets  you  study  philosophy  with 
Professor  Schallmeyer.  That  is  her  affair.  For  my  part,  I 
do  not  like  philosophy,  which  is  nothing  but  superstition  ;  I 
am  a  merchant,  and  need  all  my  head  for  my  business.  Be 
as  much  of  a  philosopher  as  you  like  ;  but  I  beg  you  not  to 
express  your  opinions  openly,  for  it  will  injure  me  in  business 
if  my  customers  hear  I  have  a  son  who  does  not  believe  in 
God.  The  Jews,  especially,  will  not  buy  any  velveteen  of  me  ; 
and  they  are  worthy  people,  pay  promptly,  and  are  right  in 
holding  to  their  religion.  I  am  your  father,  and  so  older  and 
wiser  than  you  ;  so  you  can  take  my  word  for  it  when  I  say 
that  atheism  is  a  great  sin." 


I  have  really  always  had  a  prejudice  in  favor  of  Catholi- 
cism, dating  from  my  youth,  and  inspired  by  the  amiability  of 
Catholic  priests.  One  of  them  was  a  friend  of  my  father's, 
and  taught  philosophy  in  our  school.  As  I  was  accustomed 
to  see  free  thought  and  Catholicism  united,  I  thought  of  the 
ceremonies  only  for  their  beauty,  and  the  pleasant  associa- 
tions of  my  youth  which  they  recalled,  and  never  as  anything 
hostile  to  the  development  of  a  man's  intellectual  growth. 
One  recollection  of  my  young  days  is  connected  with  them. 
When  my  parents  left  the  small  house  in  which  we  had  lived, 
my  father  bought  one  of  the  finest  houses  in  Diisseldorf,  to 
which  was  attached  the  onus  of  furnishing  an  altar  for  all 
processions  ;  and  he  took  a  pride  in  making  the  altar  as  fine 
and  rich  as  possible.  The  days  when  we  set  out  the  proces- 


Catholicism. 


sion  altar  were  always  holidays  for  me.  But  this  only  lasted 
till  the  Prussians  came  to  Dusseldorf,  for  they  deprived  us  of 
the  right. 


I  reverence  the  worthy  Herr  Schallmeyer,  now  deceased — 
in  his  day  a  catholic  priest  and  Rector  of  the  Dusseldorf 
Gymnasium — as  the  first  to  cultivate  my  mind  and  heart.  I 
was  under  his  special  instruction  as  a  scholar  of  the  Gym- 
nasium, and  went  through  all  its  classes.  I  remained  in 
this  republic  of  letters,  until,  in  the  second  war  against  the 
French,  the  whole  first  class  left  the  Gymnasium,  and  most  of 
the  scholars,  and  I  among  them,  offered  their  services  to  our 
country,  which  profited  little  by  the  offer,  as  the  peace  of 
Paris  was  signed  shortly  afterward. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


STRANGE  !  "  The  Life  and  Adventures  of  the  Ingenious 
Knight,  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha,  by  Miguel  de  Cervantes" 
was  the  first  book  I  read,  when  I  had  reached  an  intelligent 
age,  and  had  a  fair  acquaintance  with  my  letters.  I  well 
remember  the  time  when  I  stole  out  of  the  house  in  the  early 
morning,  and  hurried  to  the  Court  Garden  to  read  "  Don 
Quixote  "  undisturbed.  It  was  a  lovely  day  in  May.  The 
blooming  spring  lay  in  the  still  light  of  morning,  and  listened 
to  the  voice  of  the  nightingale,  as  she  sang  a  flattering  song 
of  promise,  so  sweet,  so  persuasive  and  melting,  that  the  shy 
buds  opened,  the  bold  grass  and  fragrant  sunbeams  kissed 
each  other,  and  tree  and  flower  trembled  with  rapture.  I  sat 
down  on  a  mossy  stone  bench  in  the  Alley  of  Sighs,  as  it  is 
called,  near  the  waterfall,  and  my  young  heart  rejoiced  at  the 
brave  knight's  doughty  deeds.  In  my  childish  good  faith  I 
took  it  all  for  true  ;  and  when  fate  played  the  poor  knight  a 
laughable  trick,  I  felt  that  it  was  the  part  of  a  hero  to  bear 
scorn  as  well  as  bodily  wounds,  and  pitied  him  as  much  for 
one  as  the  other.  I  was  a  child,  and  had  not  yet  learned  to 
know  the  irony  God  has  planted  in  the  world,  which  the  great 
author  has  depicted  in  his  world  of  fiction  ;  and  wept  bitter 
tears  when  the  worthy  knight  gained  nothing  but  ridicule  and 
blows  for  his  magnanimous  deeds.  And  as  I,  not  being  much 
skilled  in  reading,  pronounced  all  the  words  aloud,  the  birds 
and  trees,  the  stream  and  flowers  heard  it  all  ;  and  as  these 
innocent  creatures  of  nature  knew  as  little  of  the  world  as 
children,  they  thought  it  was  all  true,  and  wept  with  me  over 
the  poor  knight's  woes  —  a  venerable  oak  sobbed,  and  the 
waterfall  shook  its  white  beard,  deploring  the  wickedness  of 
the  world.  We  felt  the  knight's  heroism  none  the  less  worthy 
of  admiration  because  the  lion  turned  his  back  on  him,  with- 
out showing  any  desire  to  fight  ;  and  found  his  feats  of  arms 
all  the  more  admirable,  the  weaker  and  more  fragile  his  frame, 

54 


Quixote.  55 


the  rottener  the  armor  that  covered  it,  and  the  sorrier  the  nag 
that  bore  him.  We  despised  the  low  rabble  that  laid  violent 
hands  on  him — and  still  more  the  high-born  rabble  in  jewels 
and  silks,  of  elegant  speech  and  ducal  rank,  who  could  make 
sport  of  a  man  so  far  above  them  in  intellect  and  greatness  of 
soul.  Dulcinea's  knight  rose  higher  in  my  estimation  as  I 
read  farther  in  the  wonderful  book,  which  I  did  every  day  in 
the  same  garden  ;  so  that  by  the  autumn  I  had  come  to  the 
end  of  the  story — and  I  shall  never  forget  the  day  when  I  read 
of  the  pitiful  duel  in  which  the  knight  was  so  shamefully 
defeated. 

It  was  a  gloomy  day ;  gray  clouds  drifted  over  the  sky,  the 
yellow  leaves  dropped  sadly  from  the  trees,  tears  stood  on  the 
last  flowers  whose  faded  heads  drooped  low,  the  nightingales 
had  long  ago  ceased  their  song — the  transitoriness  of  life 
stared  at  me  on  every  side — and  my  heart  was  ready  to  burst, 
as  I  read  how  the  gallant  knight  lay  stunned  and  wounded  on 
the  ground,  and  through  his  closed  visor,  as  if  from  out  of  the 
grave,  said  to  his  conqueror,  "  Dulcinea  Del  Toboso  is  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  the  world,  and  I  the  most  unfortunate 
knight  on  earth.  It  is  not  fit  that  my  weakness  should  dis- 
credit this  truth.  Push,  sir  knight,  push  on  your  lance  !  " 

Alas  !  This  shining  knight  of  the  white  moon,  who  had 
overthrown  the  bravest  and  most  courteous  man  in  the  world, 
was  a  disguised  barber  ! 


This  was  long  ago — since  that  how  many  things  have  hap- 
pened !  All  that  seemed  so  noble — the  knights  with  their 
chivalrous  and  catholic  deeds,  hacking  and  stabbing  each 
other  in  the  lofty  tourney,  the  gentle  squires  and  modest 
dames,  the  Northland  heroes  and  the  Minnesingers,  the  monks 
and  nuns,  ancestral  tombs  and  sad  forebodings,  bells  tolling 
for  those  who  had  renounced  all  joy  in  life,  the  universal 
voice  of  woe — what  bitter  disgust  I  have  learned  to  feel  for 
them  all  !  It  was  not  always  so.  How  often  have  I  sat 
among  the  ruins  of  the  castle  of  Diisseldorf  on  the  Rhine, 
repeating  to  myself  that  sweetest  of  all  Uhland's  songs : 

"  The  fair  young  shepherd  wandered  near 
The  castle  of  the  king. 
The  lady  from  the  battlements 
Looked  down  and  longed  full  sore. 


56  £My  First  'Books. 


She  called  to  him  in  sweetest  tone  : 
"  Ah,  might  I  but  come  down  to  thee  ! 
How  dazzling  white  the  little  lambs, 
How  red  the  flowers'  bloom  !  " 

The  gentle  youth  his  answer  made  : 
"  And  if  thou  earnest  down, 
How  dazzling  red  thy  little  cheeks, 
How  white  thy  rounded  arms  !  " 

And  as  in  uncomplaining  woe 
Each  morn  he  wandered  by, 
He  gazed  until  above  him  there 
His  gentle  love  appeared. 

And  loud  he  called  in  friendly  tone  : 
"  Good-morrow,  princess  fair  !  " 
Her  gentle  answer  echoed  back  : 
"  Thanks,  gentle  shepherd  mine  !  " 

Winter  had  fled  and  spring  had  come, 
Flowers  bloomed  all  around  ; 
The  shepherd  near  the  castle  drew, 
But  she  was  seen  no  more. 

He  cried  aloud,  in  mournful  tone  : 
"  Good-morrow,  princess  fair  !  " 
A  spirit  voice  on  high  replied  : 
"  Farewell,  oh,  shepherd  mine  !  " 

As  I  sat  among  the  ruins  of  the  old  castle,  and  repeated  this 
song,  I  could  sometimes  hear  how  the  Nixies  in  the  Rhine 
that  flows  hard  by  mocked  my  words,  sighing  and  moaning  in 
the  waves  with  comic  pathos,  "  A  spirit  voice  on  high  replied, 
Farewell,  oh,  shepherd  mine  !  " 

But  I  did  not  allow  myself  to  be  disturbed  by  any  such 
pranks  of  the  water-sprites,  though  they  made  sport  of  the 
finest  parts  of  Uhland's  songs.  I  modestly  supposed  they 
were  tittering  at  me,  especially  when  evening  drew  on,  and  I 
spoke  the  lines  a  little  louder,  to  drive  off  a  secret  creeping 
that  the  old  ruins  gave  me.  There  was  a  story  that  a  headless 
lady  walked  there  by  night.  I  often  thought  I  heard  the  rust- 
ling of  her  silk  dress  sweeping  by,  and  my  heart  beat.  At  that 
time  I  was  under  the  spell  of  Uhland's  poetry.  Many  springs 


Tears  not  Shed  in  Vain.  57 

have  bloomed  since  then,  but  their  charm  has  faded  ;  for,  ah  ! 
I  no  longer  believe  the  nightingale's  sweet  falsehoods — that 
flatterer  of  the  spring ;  I  know  how  soon  its  glory  fades  ;  and 
when  I  gaze  on  the  tender  buds,  I  see  them,  in  my  fancy,  bloom- 
ing red,  fading,  and  scattered  by  the  winds.  In  all,  I  see 
winter  in  disguise. 

But  still  in  my  bosom  burns  the  glowing  love  that  rises  above 
the  whole  earth,  and  mounts  adventurously  to  the  yawning 
depths  of  heaven  only  to  be  thrust  back  by  the  cold  stars  ;  and 
sinks  again  to  the  little  earth,  where  it  has  to  confess,  with 
sighs  and  cries  of  pleasure,  that  there  is  nothing  fairer  and  bet- 
ter than  humaa  hearts.  Love  is  inspiration,  the  godlike  art, 
be  its  actions  foolish  or  be  they  wise.  And  the  child  did  not 
shed  the  tears  in  vain  which  flowed  for  the  foolish  knight's 
woes  ;  nor  the  youth,  when  later  he  wept,  on  many  a  night  in 
his  room,  for  the  death  of  the  holy  champions  of  liberty — for 
King  Agis  of  Sparta,  for  Caius  and  Tiberius  Gracchus  of  Rome, 
for  Jesus  of  Jerusalem,  and  for  Robespierre  and  Saint-Just  of 
Paris. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


MY  mother  now  began  to  dream  of  a  brilliant  future  for  me 
in  another  direction. 

The  house  of  Rothschild,  with  the  head  of  which  my  father 
was  on  confidential  terms,  was  then  just  beginning  its  course 
of  fabulous  success.  Other  princes  of  finance  and  banking  had 
also  risen  about  us  ;  and  my  mother  judged  that  the  hour  had 
sounded  when  a  clever  head  for  business  might  lead  a  man  to 
great  things,  and  place  him  on  the  pinnacle  of  worldly  prosper- 
ity. She  resolved  that  I  should  become  a  money  power  ;  and 
so  I  must  acquire  foreign  languages,  especially  English,  geog- 
raphy, bookkeeping  —  in  a  word,  every  sort  of  knowledge 
useful  in  trade  by  sea  or  land. 

My  father  left  me  for  some  time  in  Frankfort,  in  the  year 
1815.  To  get  some  acquaintance  with  exchange  and  colonial 
trade,  I  was  placed  in  the  counting  house  of  one  of  my  father's 
bankers,  and  the  warehouse  of  a  wholesale  grocer  ;  the  first  of 
which  visits  lasted  three  weeks  and  the  latter  four,  during 
which  I  learned  how  bills  of  exchange  are  drawn  and  how  nut- 
megs look. 

A  well-known  merchant  with  whom  I  was  to  be  an  apprenti 
millionnaire,  declared  I  had  no  talent  for  business  ;  and  I 
laughed  and  confessed  he  was  right. 

1  lived  two  months  in  Frankfort,  and,  as  I  have  said,  remained 
but  three  weeks  in  the  banker's  office.  This  was  probably  the 
foundation  of  a  deliberate  invention  I  once  read  in  a  German 
paper  that  I  was  for  two  whole  years  in  the  service  of  a  banker 
at  Frankfort.  God  knows  I  would  willingly  have  been  a 
banker  ;  it  was  my  dearest  wish  ;  but  I  could  not  bring  it 
about.  I  soon  saw  that  bankers  were  destined  to  rule  the  world. 

It  was  after  Christmas  in  the  year  1815  after  the  birth  of 
Christ,  that  the  name  of  Borne  first  fell  upon  my  ear.  My 
father  had  taken  me  with  him  to  the  Frankfort  fair,  to  show 
me  something  of  the  world  —  which  improves  one.  I  was  de- 
lighted with  the  comedy  that  offered  itself  to  my  eyes.  In  the 

58 


*Dr.  'Borne.  59 

booths  in  the  upper  part  of  the  Zeil  I  saw  wax  figures,  wild 
beasts,  and  wonders  of  nature  and  art.  My  father  pointed  out 
the  great  magazines,  Christian  and  Jewish,  where  you  could 
buy  things  for  ten  per  cent,  less  than  the  cost  of  manufacture, 
and  always  get  cheated.  He  also  showed  me  the  Council 
House,  the  Romer,  where  German  kings  were  bought  for  ten 
per  cent,  below  the  cost  of  manufacture.  The  article  finally 
fell  off  very  much.  One  day  my  father  took  me  into  the  read- 
ing room  of  a  A -lodge,  or  a  en-lodge  where  he  often  supped, 
drank  coffee,  played  cards,  and  performed  other  masonic  rites. 
While  I  was  deep  in  the  newspapers  a  young  man  sitting  next 
to  me  whispered  in  my  ear.  "  That  is  Dr.  Borne,  who  writes 
criticisms  on  the  actors." 

I  looked  up  and  saw  a  man,  who  walked  back  and  forth 
through  the  rooms  several  times,  looking  for  a  paper,  and  then 
went  out  of  the  door.  Short  as  the  time  was  that  he  had 
stayed  the  whole  appearance  of  the  man  was  stamped  on  my 
memory,  and  I  could  draw  a  picture  of  him  to-day  with  diplo- 
matic accuracy.  He  wore  a  brand-new  tight-fitting  coat,  and 
his  linen  was  of  dazzling  whiteness  ;  but  wore  his  clothes  not 
like  a  dandy,  but  with  a  careless  ease,  not  to  say  a  forbidding 
indifference,  that  plainly  showed  he  had  not  passed  much 
time  before  the  mirror  over  the  knot  of  his  white  cravat ; 
and  had  put  on  his  coat  as  the  tailor  brought  it  home,  with- 
out looking  very  closely  whether  it  were  too  large  or  too 
small. 

He  looked  neither  tall  nor  short,  thin  nor  stout ;  his  face 
was  neither  red  nor  pale,  but  of  a  sort  of  reddish  pallor  or 
faded  red  ;  and  what  was  most  noticeable  in  it  was  an  air  of 
repelling  distinction,  a  certain  disdain,  such  as  we  find  in  men 
who  feel  above  their  position,  yet  doubt  if  others  recognize 
the  fact.  It  was  not  the  mysterious  majesty  we  discover  in 
the  faces  of  kings  or  men  of  genius,  who  preserve  their  incog- 
nito in  the  midst  of  the  crowd — but  rather  the  revolutionary, 
more  or  less  titanic  dissatisfaction,  that  is  found  in  the  faces  of 
pretenders  of  all  kinds.  His  carriage,  his  gestures,  his  walk, 
had  in  them  something  sure,  determined,  full  of  character. 
Are  remarkable  men  wrapped  in  the  invisible  halo  of  their 
souls  ?  Does  our  spirit  divine  in  them  a  glory  we  cannot  see 
with  the  eyes  of  the  flesh  ?  The  moral  thunder-storms  in  such 
rare  men  may  have  an  electrical  influence  on  the  young,  un- 
blunted  natures  that  come  near  them,  as  material  storms  affect 
cats.  The  flash  of  this  man's  eye  affected  me,  I  cannot  say 


60  tAt  Frankfort-on-tbe-lMam. 

exactly  how  ;  but  I  have  never  forgotten  the  emotion,  nor  Dr. 
Borne  the  dramatic  critic. 

Yes,  he  was  a  dramatic  critic,  and  exercised  his  powers  on 
the  heroes  of  the  boards.  My  college  friend  Dieffenbach, 
when  we  were  fellow-students  at  Bonn,  whenever  he  met  a 
dog  or  a  cat,  straightway  cut  off  his  tail,  out  of  pure  love  of 
cutting — which  made  us  all  very  angry  with  him  when  the 
poor  brutes  howled  terribly.  But  we  afterward  forgave  him 
heartily  ;  for  this  love  of  cutting  made  him  the  best  surgeon 
in  Germany.  So  Borne  first  tried  his  hand  on  the  players, 
and  conceited  youths.  On  account  of  the  more  valuable  serv- 
ices which,  as  the  great  political  surgeon,  he  afterward  ren- 
dered by  keen  criticisms,  we  must  pardon  many  a  youthful  excess 
practiced  on  the  Heigels,  Weidners,  Ursprungs,  and  similar 
innocent  animals. 


A    MEMORY. 

What  wilt  thou  with  me,  sad,  fond,  vision  vain  ? 

I  feel  thy  breath,  and  now  thy  form  I  see  ! 
Thou  turn'st  on  me  a  look  of  patient  pain  ; 

I  know  thee,  and  alas  !  thou  knowest  me. 

I  am  a  sick  man  now,  and  every  limb 

Is  tired  of  life,  my  heart  has  ceased  to  glow, 

Beat  down  by  sorrow,  wrapped  in  sadness  dim  ; 
How  changed  from  when  I  met  thee  years  ago  ! 

In  pride  of  strength,  from  my  own  country  far 
I  wandered,  by  a  hopeless  fancy  driven  ; 

I  would  have  crushed  the  earth,  and  torn  each  star 
Down  from  its  pathway  in  the  dome  of  heaven. 

Frankfort,  thou  holdest  many  a  fool  and  knave, 
Yet  I  do  love  thee  for  what  thou  hast  done ; 

Germania  owes  thee  many  a  monarch  brave 
And  the  chief  bard,  and  I,  my  gentle  one. 

Along  the  Zeil  I  walked,  the  well-built  Zeil ; 

It  was  high  fair-time,  dear  to  trading  Jew ; 
A  many-colored  crowd  surged  round  me,  while 

I  marked,  as  in  a  dream,  the  busy  crew. 


*A  ^Memory.  61 

And  there  was  she  !     With  secret,  sweet  surprise, 

I  gazed  upon  that  figure  sweeping  light, 
The  soft  brown  glances  of  her  heavenly  eyes, 

That  drew  me  to  them  with  a  curious  might. 

And  through  the  market  and  the  streets  she  passed, 
And  reached  an  alley,  narrow,  poor,  and  mean — 

The  sweet  face  turned,  one  beaming  smile  she  cast, 
And  slipped  into  the  house — I  hastened  in. 

She  was  so  lovely  !  lovelier  than  e'er 
The  goddess  rising  from  the  ocean  seemed. 

Perchance  this  was  the  being  wondrous  fair, 

For  whom  in  boyhood's  days  I  yearned  and  dreamed  \ 

And  yet  I  knew  it  not !     Shrouded  in  night 

Was  all  my  soul,  a  spell  was  round  me  wrought. 

Perchance,  the  long-sought  phantom  of  delight 
I  held  within  my  arms — I  knew  it  not  ! 

And  fairer  yet  I  saw  her  in  her  woe, 
After  three  days  had  fled,  of  which  each  one 

Fled  like  a  dream  upon  her  breast  of  snow — 
Then  the  old,  hopeless  fancy  drove  me  on. 

But  she  with  gesture  full  of  wild  despair, 

And  cries  of  woe,  her  hands  in  sorrow  wrung ; 

Then  falling  to  the  earth,  with  loosened  hair, 
About  my  knees  her  clinging  arms  she  flung. 

Ah,  God  !     A  lock  of  hair  about  my  spur 
Had  twined  itself — I  saw  her  bleeding  .pain, 

Yet  tore  myself  away.     So  lost  I  her, 
My  poor  child,  I  should  never  see  again  ! 

The  hopeless  fancy  long  has  fled — the  face 

Of  the  poor  child  pursues  where'er  I  go. 
Where  strayest  thou,  in  what  cold,  desert  place? 

I  gave  thee  up  to  poverty  and  woe  ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
tbamburg. 

[TO    FRANZ    VON    ZUCCALMAGLIO.] 

I  AM  drawn  to  the  North  by  a  golden  star  ; 

Adieu,  my  brother,  think  of  me  from  far  ! 

Be  true,  be  true,  unto  Poesy  ! 

Never  banish  that  sweet  little  bride  from  thee  ! 

Keep  in  thy  heart,  as  a  shield  from  wrong, 

Our  dear  and  beautiful  German  tongue  ! 

And  if  e'er  thou  comest  to  Northern  land, 

List,  when  thou  touchest  the  northern  strand ; 

List  for  a  ringing  sound  that  creeps 

From  afar,  and  over  the  wide  wave  sweeps, 

And  it  well  may  be,  thy  listening  ear 

A  well-known  singer's  song  shall  hear. 

Then  take  thou  up  thy  lyre  again, 

And  send  me  good  news  across  the  main  : 

How  with  thee,  my  beloved  poet,  it  goes, 

And  with  all  my  loved  ones  how  it  goes  ; 

And  how  it  goes  with  the  fairest  of  all, 

And  the  youths  whose  hearts  leap  up  at  her  call, 

If  she  kindles  all  hearts,  as  she  kindles  mine, 

The  blooming  rose  on  the  blooming  Rhine  ! 

Of  the  Fatherland  give  me  tidings  new, 

If  it  still  be  the  land  where  love  is  true, 

If  the  old  God  still  in  Germany  dwell, 

And  men  no  more  serve  the  devil  from  hell. 

And  when  thy  melodies  sweetly  ring, 

And  joyous  fables  once  more  shall  bring 

Over  the  waves,  to  the  distant  strand, 

Thy  bard  shall  rejoice  in  the  Northern  land. 


The  town  of  Hamburg  is  a  good  town — clean,  solid  houses. 
Infamous  Macbeth  does  not  reign  here,  but  here  reigns  Banquo. 
Banquo's  ghost  reigns  over  all  this  little  Free  town,  whose  ap- 

62 


Tbe  Hamburghers.  63 

parent  ruler  is  a  high  and  mighty  Senate.  It  is  truly  a  free 
state,  and  there  is  the  greatest  political  freedom.  The  citizens 
can  do  what  they  please  ;  and  the  high  and  mighty  Senate 
can  do  as  it  pleases.  It  is  a  republic.  If  Lafayette  had 
not  had  the  luck  to  find  Louis  Philippe,  he  would  certainly 
have  recommended  the  Hamburg  senators  and  councilors  to 
his  Frenchmen.  Hamburg  is  the  best  of  republics.  Its 
customs  are  English  [or  angelic — a  pun],  and  its  food  is 
heavenly.  Truly,  there  are  dishes  to  be  eaten  between  the 
Wandramen  and  the  Dreckwall  streets  that  are  not  dreamt  of 
in  our  philosophy.  The  Hamburgers  are  good  people  and 
eat  well.  They  have  all  sorts  of  opinions  on  religion,  politics, 
and  science  ;  but  their  judgment  is  unanimous  in  the  matter  of 
eating.  Hamburg  was  built  by  Charlemagne,  and  is  inhabited 
by  80,000  small  people  who  would  not  change  with  Charle- 
magne, who  is  buried  at  Aix-la-Chapelle.  The  population  of 
Hamburg  may  amount  to  100,000  ;  I  do  not  know  precisely, 
though  I  walked  for  days  through  the  streets  looking  at  the 
people.  No  doubt  I  overlooked  some  men,  for  my  attention 
was  chiefly  taken  up  by  the  women.  I  found  these  by  no 
means  slender,  rather  inclined  to  be  corpulent  on  the  contrary  ; 
but  enchantingly  pretty,  and  generally  of  a  certain  pleasantly 
sensuous  type  that  I  found  not  disagreeable.  If  they  are  not 
much  given  to  sentiment  or  romantic  love,  and  do  not  under- 
stand much  about  a  heartfelt  passion,  it  is  not  their  fault  but 
Cupid's — the  little  god  often  laying  his  sharpest  dart  in  his 
bow,  and  then,  either  through  mischief  or  mischance,  aiming 
too  low,  and  instead  of  the  heart,  transfixing  the  stomachs 
of  the  fair  ladies  of  Hamburg.  As  to  the  men,  I  generally 
found  them  short  and  thickset,  with  cold,  intelligent  eyes, 
low  foreheads,  flabby  red  cheeks,  well-developed  feeding  ap- 
paratus, hats  apparently  nailed  on  their  heads,  and  both  hands 
in  their  pockets,  as  if  they  were  just  on  the  point  of  asking 
"  How  much  is  it  ? " 


HAMBURG,  July  6,  1816. 
To  Christian  Scthe,  Dusseldorf: 

Yes,  I  will  write  to  my  friend  Christian.  To  be  sure,  it  is 
not  the  most  appropriate  time  for  it.  My  heart  is  in  a  curious 
state  of  agitation,  and  I  must  take  care  that  no  word  escapes 
me  that  would  betray  my  innermost  feelings.  I  am  well  ;  am 
my  own  master,  and  all  alone,  and  so  contented  and  happy  and 


64  Hamburg. 

proud,  and  looking  down  on  everybody  as  a  parcel  of  dwarfs, 
and  enjoying  the  sensation.  Christian,  you  know  my  bragga- 
docio vein.  So — 

When  the  hour  is  come,  I  feel  my  heart  swell, 
And  my  bosom  is  under  the  magical  spell ; 
Quick,  give  me  the  pen  !     Let  me  paint  in  a  line 
The  sweetness  and  grace  of  my  charmer  divine  ! 

Oh,  curse  the  bombast  !  I  believe  my  muse  has  played  me 
false  by  sending  me  off  to  the  north,  and  staying  behind  her- 
self. She  too  is  a  woman.  Or  is  she  frightened  away  by  my 
business  pursuits  ?  It  is  a  fact ;  this  is  a  nest  of  commercial 
debauchery.  Many  a  German  poet  has  sung  himself  into  a 
consumption  here. 

Rejoice  !  Rejoice  !  In  four  weeks  I  shall  see  Molly.  With 
her,  my  muse  will  come  back  !  I  have  not  see  her  for  these 
two  years.  Old  heart,  why  dost  thou  rejoice  and  beat  so  high  ? 


HAMBURG,  October  27,  1816. 

She  loves  me  not!  You  must  speak  the  last  word  low,  dear 
Christian,  very  low.  Eternal  heaven  is  in  the  first  words — in 
the  last  one,  eternal  hell.  Could  you  but  look  for  a  moment 
in  your  poor  friend's  face,  and  see  how  pale  he  looks,  and 
wild,  and  frantic,  your  righteous  indignation  at  his  long  silence 
would  vanish  at  once  ;  better  yet,  could  you  cast  a  glance  into 
his  inmost  soul, — you  would  love  me  more  than  ever.  You 
know,  Christian,  that  from  the  moment  I  first  saw  you  I  was 
involuntarily  drawn  to  you,  and  you  were  unaccountably  dear 
to  me.  I  must  have  told  you  this  long  ago.  How  often  have 
I  seen  in  your  face,  and  above  all  in  your  eyes,  something 
which  in  a  mysterious  way  repelled  me  and  then  drew  me  back 
to  you — so  that  I  seemed  to  recognize  in  the  same  glance 
kind  affection  and  the  bitterest,  scornful,  icy  contempt.  Do 
you  know,  I  have  seen  the  same  puzzling  something  in  Molly's 
glances.  And  this  perplexes  me.  For  though  I  have  the 
surest,  most  undoubted  proofs  that  she  loved  me — proofs  that 
the  Rector  Schallmeyer  would  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  logi- 
cal, and  build  his  own  system  upon — my  poor  heart  will  not 
give  in  and  say  concede,  but  cries,  "  What  care  I  for  your 
logic  ?  I  have  a  logic  of  my  own."  I  have  seen  her  again. 


Letter.  6? 


The  devil  take  my  soul, 
The  hangman  take  my  life, 
As  long  as  I  may  choose 
For  myself  a  lovely  wife. 

Ha  !  Does  not  that  make  you  shudder,  Christian  ?  Shudder 
away  ;  I  am  shuddering  myself.  Burn  this  letter.  God  have 
mercy  on  my  poor  soul.  I  did  not  write  this  ;  a  pale  fellow 
sat  in  my  chair  and  wrote  it.  That  is  because  it  is  midnight. 
O  God  !  A  madman  cannot  sin.  See,  Christian  ;  only  your 
friend  could  raise  his  eyes  to  the  Most  High.  (Do  you  recog- 
nize him  in  that?)  It  really  seems  as  if  it  would  be  his  per- 
dition. But  you  can  hardly  imagine,  dear  Christian,  how 
noble  and  sweet  my  perdition  looks.  Aut  Ccesar  aut  nihil  was 
always  my  motto.  All  for  all. 

I  am  a  crazy  chessplayer.  I  have  lost  the  queen  at  the 
first  move,  but  I  play  on,  and  play  on,  for  the  queen.  Shall  I 
still  play  on  ? 

Keep  me,  O  God,  under  thy  sure  protection  from  the  cun- 
ning, evil  might  of  the  hour.  To  bear  a  burning  longing  in 
my  heart  for  years,  and  far  from  her,  is  like  the  pains  of  hell, 
and  draws  cries  of  hellish  anguish  from  me.  But  to  be  near 
her,  and  yet  for  never  ending  weeks  to  long  in  vain  for  the 
sole  blessing  on  earth,  a  look  from  her — O  Christian,  the 
purest  and  most  pious  heart  would  break  out  in  wild  and 
frantic  blasphemies. 

And  it  is  heart-sickening  that  she  so  bitterly  despises  my 
beautiful  songs,  which  I  sang  only  for  her,  and  ridicules  me 
for  them.  But  you  may  be  assured  that  in  spite  of  this,  the 
muse  is  dearer  to  me  than  ever.  She  has  proved  a  true 
and  consoling  friend,  a  secret  joy,  and  I  love  her  from  my 
soul. 

I  write  many  verses,  for  I  have  plenty  of  time,  and  the 
"  enormous  business  operations  "  do  not  occupy  me  much.  I 
do  not  know  whether  my  later  poems  are  better  than  the 
others;  but  they  certainly  are  softer  and  sweeter,  like  honeyed 
woe.  I  am  thinking  of  printing  them  soon — but  it  may  be 
months  yet.  But  here  is  the  trouble  :  as  they  are  mere  love- 
songs  they  will  terribly  disgrace  me  as  a  business  man  ;  I  can- 
not make  you  thoroughly  understand  this,  as  you  do  not 
know  the  ruling  spirit  of  the  place. 

I  live  quite  alone  here  ;  you  will  readily  believe  this  from 
what  I  have  written  above.  My  uncle  lives  in  the  country. 


66  Hamburg. 

There  is  a  deal  of  display  and  ceremony  out  there  ;  and  the 
free-and-easy  poet  makes  sad  blunders  in  etiquette. 

The  great  (???)  Heine's  nephew  is  everywhere  well  received 
and  treated  ;  pretty  girls  make  eyes  at  him  ;  their  fichus  rise 
and  fall  with  a  gentle  motion,  and  their  mothers  indulge  in 
calculations,  but — but — keep  off  !  I  am  all  the  company  that 
I  need. 

And  what  sort  of  a  fellow  I  keep  company  with,  Christian 
knows  better  than  I. 

Uncle  wants  me  away.  Father  complains  I  am  doing  noth- 
ing, in  spite  of  all  he,  has  laid  out  on  me.  But,  codte  que 
codte  I  will  stay  here. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Hmalic  Toctnc. 

IN  the  wondrous-lovely  month  of  May, 
When  all  the  buds  were  swelling, 

Then  deep  down  within  my  heart 
The  springs  of  love  were  welling. 

In  the  wondrous-lovely  month  of  May, 
When  birds  were  in  full  song, 

I  told  her  that  for  love  of  her 
My  heart  did  yearn  and  long. 


The  rose  and  the  lily,  the  sun  and  the  dove, 
I  loved  them  all  with  a  rapture  of  love. 
I  love  them  no  longer,  I  love  alone 
My  pet,  my  darling,  my  dainty,  my  own, 
The  spring  from  which  all  true  love  flows — 
She  is  dove  and  sun  and  lily  and  rose. 


When  I  look  into  thine  eyes, 
Every  woe  and  sorrow  flies. 
When  on  thy  lips  I  print  a  kiss, 
I  am  rilled  with  perfect  bliss. 

When  I  lean  upon  thy  breast, 
O'er  me  comes  a  heavenly  rest ; 
But  when  thou  say'st  "  I  love  thee  so  ! 
My  bitter  tears  unbidden  flow. 

67 


68  <iAmalie  Heine. 


Lay  thy  cheek  against  my  cheek, 

Let  our  tears  together  flow  ! 
Press  thy  heart  fast  to  my  heart, 

Till  the  flames  united  glow  ! 

Then,  when  the  torrent  of  our  tears 

Pours  on  the  raging  fire, 
And  when  my  arm  shall  clasp  thee  close, 

I  shall  die  of  love's  desire  ! 


I  will  plunge  my  soul 

Into  the  lily's  cup  ; 

The  lilies  shall  chime  and  breathe 

A  song  of  my  dearest  love. 

The  song  will  tremble  and  live, 
Like  the  kiss  of  her  lips, 

Which  once  she  gave  to  me 
In  an  hour  wondrous  sweet. 


Upon  the  wings  of  melody 
My  heart's  delight  I  will  bear 

To  the  far-off  streams  of  the  Ganges, 
To  a  spot  of  beauty  rare. 

There  lies  a  blooming  garden, 
Beneathfthe  moonlight  clear  ; 

The  lotus  flowers  are  waiting 
For  their  little  sister  dear. 

The  violets  titter  and  gossip, 
And  look  at  the  stars  above  ; 

Each  rose  in  the  ear  of  her  lover 
Whispers  her  story  of  love. 

The  gazelles,  in  their  innocent  cunning, 
Listen  and  pass  with  a  bound  ; 

And  the  waves  of  the  sacred  river 
On  the  distant  shore  resound. 


Love  Teems.  69 


There  we  will  lie  in  the  shadow, 
Under  the  palm  by  the  stream, 

And  drink  deep  of  rest  and  passion, 
And  dream  a  heavenly  dream. 


The  lotus  flower  is  affrighted 
By  the  glory  of  the  sun, 
And,  with  head  down  drooping, 
Dreaming  awaits  the  night. 

The  moon,  who  is  her  lover, 
Awakes  her  with  its  light, 
And  she  uncovers  with  a  smile 
Her  lovely  flower-face. 

She  blooms  and  blushes  and  glows, 
And  silent  looks  on  high, 
And  fragrant  weeps  and  trembles 
With  love  and  the  pangs  of  love. 


You  love  me  not,  you  love  me  not ; 

Oh,  that's  a  trifling  thing  ; 
Only  let  me  look  into  your  eyes, 

And  I'm  happy  as  a  king. 

You  hate  me,  yes  indeed  you  do, 

So  your  rosy  lips  declare  ; 
Turn  round  and  let  me  kiss  them,  child, 

And  then  I  shall  not  care. 


Dearest,  thou  to-day  must  say  : 
Art  thou  not  a  vision  vain, 

Such  as,  in  sleepy  summer  day, 
Springs  from  out  the  poet's  brain  ? 


70  <sAmalie  Heine. 


But  no — those  lips  that  sweetly  smiled, 
The  eyes  wherein  such  magic  gleamed, 

Such  a  loving,  darling  child 
Never  yet  a  poet  dreamed. 

Basilisks  and  vampires  cruel, 

Dragons  fell  and  monsters  dire — 

Fabled  beasts  like  these  are  fuel 
Fit  to  feed  the  poet's  fire. 


But  thee  and  all  thy  roguish  ways, 
The  downcast  lips,  that  hardly  seem 

To  give  consent  to  primest  gaze — 
Of  these  could  poet  never  dream. 


Like  to  the  daughter  of  ocean's  foam 
Shines  my  love  in  beauty's  sheen  ; 
And  she  is  the  chosen  one 
Who  shall  be  a  stranger's  bride. 


Heart,  my  heart,  thou  long  enduring, 
Make  no  moan  for  her  betrayal  ; 
Bear  it,  bear  it,  and  forgive  it — 
All  the  pretty  fool  has  done. 


I'll  make  no  moan,  though  my  heart  break,  my  own, 
Albeit  long-lost  love  !     I'll  make  no  moan. 

What  though  thou  shinest  bright  with  diamond  light, 
No  ray  shall  ever  pierce  thy  heart's  dark  night. 


Long  since  in  dreams  I  saw  thee  as  thou  art, 
And  saw  the  night  that  dwells  within  thy  heart, 
And  saw  the  serpents  on  thy  heart  that  feed, 
And  saw,  my  love,  that  thou  art  poor  indeed. 


Love  Toems.  71 

There  is  a  tooting  and  fiddling, 

The  trumpets  loudly  bray  ; 
And  in  the  merry  marriage-dance 

My  darling  leads  the  way. 

The  kettle-drums  are  rattling, 

The  bassoon  gives  a  drone — 
While  the  angels  up  above  us 

Can  only  sob  and  groan. 


If  the  flowers  knew,  the  little  flowers, 
How  deep  is  my  heart's  wound, 
They  would  weep  together  with  me, 
To  soothe  my  pain. 

And  if  the  nightingales  but  knew 
How  sick  I  am  and  sad, 
They  would  joyously  pour  forth 
Healing  melody. 

And  if  all  my  wretchedness 

The  little  gold  stars  knew, 

They  would  come  down  from  on  high 

And  speak  consoling  words. 

But  all  these  cannot  know  it ; 
One  only  knows  my  woe  ; 
She  herself  has  rent  in  twain, 
Rent  in  twain  my  heart. 


Though  unto  thee  many  have  spoken, 

And  each  could  a  story  unfold, 
Yet  that  which  my  poor  heart  has  broken 

Not  one  to  thee  ever  has  told. 

They  are  ready  enough  to  think  evil, 

Shake  their  heads,  and  profess  themselves  grieved, 
And  declare  that  I  must  be  the  devil 

And  thou  too  hast  all  this  believed. 


72  <tAmalie  Heine. 


But  the  very  worst  thing  in  the  matter 
Is  something  they  never  have  guessed 

The  worst  and  the  silliest  secret 
I  keep  safely  hid  in  my  breast. 


The  linden  was  blooming,  the  nightingale  singing, 

The  sun  was  laughing  in  pleasure  and  glee, 

When  thou  gav'st  me  a  kiss,  and  flung'st  thine  arms  round  me, 

And  strainedst  me  close  to  thy  swelling  breast. 

The  leaves  were  falling,  the  ravens  croaking, 
The  sun  looked  down  with  a  mournful  gleam, 
Then  we  said  to  each  other  an  icy  "  Farewell," 
And  politely  thou  mad'st  me  the  politest  of  courtesies. 


Long  years  thou  hast  cherished  me  truly, 
And  all  that  thou  hast  thou  hast  proffered, 
And  sweet  consolation  hast  offered, 

When  fortune  oppressed  me  unduly. 

Thee  oft  for  a  morsel  I  thanked, 
An  occasional  thaler  thou'st  sent  me, 
And  even  a  shirt  or  two  lent  me, 

And  my  journeys  have  always  been  franked. 

So,  darling,  may  God  keep  thee  ever 

From  heat  and  from  cold  safely  guarded  ; 
But  as  to  thy  being  rewarded 

For  all  thou  hast  done  for  me — never  ! 


The  world  is  so  fair  and  the  heavens  so  blue, 
The  breezes  are  blowing  so  gentle  and  mild, 
The  flowers  are  nodding  in  the  green  field, 
And  sparkling  and  glistening  with  morning  dew, 


Love  'Poems.  73 


And  all  men  are  joyous  wherever  I  turn 

Yet  would  I  were  lying  in  my  grave, 

And  clasping  my  dead  love  close  to  my  heart. 


A  pine  tree  stands  deserted 

On  the  barren  northern  height  ; 

It  slumbers,  by  the  ice  and  snow 
Wrapped  in  a  mantle  white. 

I 

It  is  dreaming  of  a  palm  tree 
In  the  far  off  morning  land, 

Deserted  and  grieving  in  silence, 
By  the  cliffs  and  burning  sand. 


They  have  tortured  me  and  teased  me, 
Till  they  turned  me  blue  and  white, 

Some  with  their  affection, 
Others  with  their  spite. 

They  poisoned  every  drop  I  drank, 

They  poisoned  every  bite, 
Some  with  their  affection, 

Others  with  their  spite. 

But  she  who  teased,  grieved,  angered  me. 

Far  more  than  all  the  rest, 
Had  not  a  single  spark  of  hate 

Nor  love,  within  her  breast. 


When  two  loves  are  parted, 

Hand  presses  hand. 
They  weep  broken-hearted, 

And  sigh  without  end. 

We  shed  not  a  tear-drop, 

Nor  sighed  "  Oh  !  "  or  "  Aye  ! 

The  weeping  and  sighing 
They  came  by  and  by. 


74  zAmalie  Heine. 


At  the  four  cross-roads  is  buried 
He  who  himself  has  slain  ; 
Where  grows  a  little  flower  blue 
Men  call  Poor  Sinners'  Weed. 

At  four  cross-roads  I  stood  and  sighed, 
The  night  was  cold  and  drear  ; 
In  the  moonlight  slowly  waving, 
Stood  the  Poor  Sinners'  Weed. 


Fair  cradle  of  my  sorrows, 
Fair  tomb  of  my  repose, 
Fair  town,  we  now  must  sever, 
"  Farewell  "  I  say  to  thee, 

Farewell,  thou  hallowed  threshold, 
Where  dwells  my  little  love  ; 
Farewell,  forever,  hallowed  spot, 
Where  first  she  met  my  gaze. 

Oh,  had  I  never  seen  her, 
Her,  my  heart's  beauteous  queen, 
Then  never  had  it  come  to  pass 
That  I  so  sad  should  be. 

I  would  not  vex  thy  gentle  heart, 
And  ne'er  implored  thy  love  ; 
I  only  asked  to  live  unknown, 
There  where  thou  drewest  breath. 

But  thou  thyself  hast  banished  me, 
Thy  lips  spoke  bitter  words  : 
Madness  riots  in  my  brain, 
And  my  heart  is  sick  and  sore. 

A  pilgrim's  staff  must  prop  my  limbs, 
As  I  wander  faint  and  slow, 
Until  I  lay  my  weary  head 
In  a  cold  grave  afar. 


Love  'Poems.  75 


All  the  old  and  mournful  ditties, 

The  horrid  dreams  that  banish  sleep, 

To-day  all  these  I  mean  to  bury  ; 
Bring  a  coffin  wide  and  deep. 

I  have  much  to  lay  within  it, 
Though  as  yet  I  say  not  what ; 

But  the  coffin  must  be  larger 
Than  Heidelberg's  enormous  vat. 

A  mighty  bier  must  be  made  ready, 
Built  of  timbers  stout  and  strong  ; 

Let  them  make  it  even  longer 
Than  Mayence's  bridge  is  long. 

Give  me  too  a  dozen  giants, 

Mightier  in  limb  and  bone 
Than  St.  Christopher  the  Blessed, 

In  the  High  Church  of  Cologne. 

They  shall  carry  forth  the  coffin, 
And  sink  it  deep  within  the  sea  ; 

'Tis  meet  for  such  a  mighty  coffin, 
That  the  grave  should  mighty  be. 

Shall  I  tell  you  why  the  coffin 
Must  be  huge  beyond  belief  ? 

All  my  loves  to-day  I  bury, 

And  with  them  bury  all  my  grief. 


Young  and  light-hearted  was  I  in  my  dream — 
The  house  that  on  the  mountain  used  to  stand 

Is  there,  and  by  the  path  along  the  stream 
My  cousin  fair  and  I  walk  hand  in  hand. 

The  dainty  slender  figure  !     And  the  sweet 
Sea-green  eyes,  roguish  as  a  water-sprite  ! 

She  trips  along  upon  her  little  feet, 
A  thing  of  strength  and  beauty,  firm  and  light. 


76  tAmalie  Heine. 


And  when  she  speaks,  the  tone  is  frank  and  true 
As  if  her  inmost  soul  it  would  disclose  ; 

And  many  a  sentence,  wise  and  thoughtful  too, 
Falls  from  two  lips  that  seem  a  new-blown  rose. 

These  are  no  pangs  of  love  that  o'er  me  steal, 
No  frenzied  dream  ;  my  pulses  tranquil  flow  ; 

Yet  by  her  side  a  strange  unrest  I  feel, 
As  her  fair  hand  I  kiss,  with  head  bent  low. 

And  then,  I  think,  I  plucked  a  flower  small, 
And  gave  it  her,  and  spoke  in  accents  free  : 

"  Marry  me,  cousin,  best  beloved  of  all, 
That,  like  thee,  I  may  good  and  happy  be." 

I  never  knew  what  she  in  answer  said, 
For  I  awoke — and  once  again  was  here — 

A  sick  man,  lying  on  a  sick  man's  bed, 
In  torture,  as  I  have  lain  many  a  year. 


[The  following  poem  must  be  referred  to  this  period,  though  published 
much  later.] 

"  DIE     WAHLVERLOBTEN." 
[  The  Elective  Betrothed^ 

Thou  cryest,  look'st  on  me,  and  tryest 
To  think  that  for  my  grief  thou  cryest — 
Thou  know'st  not,  woman,  thine  own  woe 
Draws  from  thine  eyes  the  tears  that  flow. 

Oh,  say,  if  never  o'er  thy  soul 

A  sad,  foreboding  thought  there  stole, 

To  warn  thee  that  the  Fates'  decree 

Must  part  forever  thee  and  me  ? 

United — joy  for  us  below  ; 

Parted — our  sun  must  set  in  woe. 


Love  Toems.  77 


'Twas  writ  in  the  great  book  above 

That  we  must  one  another  love. 

Thy  place  was  on  my  breast,  that  so 

Thou  might'st  have  learned  thyself  to  know  ; 

Freed  from  the  plants  of  common  race, 

Oh,  flower,  borne  in  my  embrace 

Up  to  a  higher  life  with  me — 

I  would  have  given  a  soul  to  thee. 

Now  that  the  riddles  all  are  read, 
The  sand  from  out  the  hour  glass  fled — 
Oh,  weep  not,  for  it  so  must  be — 
Alone  thou  witherest,  and  I  flee. 
Thou  witherest  ere  thou  didst  blow, 
Art  quenched  ere  ever  thou  didst  glow  ; 
Thou  diest,  feelest  the  hand  of  death, 
Ere  thou  hast  drawn  one  living  breath. 

I  know  it  now.     By  God  !  thou  art 
She  whom  I  loved.     How  sore  the  smart 
When,  in  the  moment  when  we  know, 
The  hour  strikes  which  bids  us  go  ! 
And  "Welcome"  sounds  but  as  a  way 
To  say  "Farewell."     We  part  to-day 
Forever.     In  the  heights  of  heaven 
No  hope  to  meet  again  is  given. 
Thy  beauty  in  the  dust  is  prone  ; 
Thou  liest  crushed  and  overthrown. 
Far  other  is  the  poet's  lot ; 
To  death  e'en  Death  can  doom  him  not; 
The  crash  of  worlds  shall  pass  us  by, 
Living  in  land  of  song  for  aye, 
In  Avalon,  where  fairies  dwell — 
Fair  corpse,  forever  fare  thee  well  ! 


CHAPTER  X. 
Dosage. 


IT  was  on  a  beautiful  spring  day  that  I  first  left  the  town  of 
Hamburg.  I  can  see  now  the  golden  sunlight  playing  on  the 
tarry  sides  of  the  ships,  and  hear  the  sailors'  joyous,  long 
drawn  out  Heave-ho  !  A  harbor  in  springtime  has  something 
which  just  fits  with  the  humor  of  a  youth  going  out  for  the 
first  time  into  the  world,  venturing  for  the  first  time  on  the 
great  sea  of  life  —  his  thoughts  all  bright  colored,  his  sails 
swelled  with  confidence  —  Heave-ho  !  But  ere  long  storms 
gather,  the  horizon  grows  dark,  the  tempest  roars,  the 
timbers  creak,  waves  dash  the  rudder  in  pieces,  and  the  poor 
bark  is  thrown  on  to  the  rocks  of  romance  or  stranded  on 
shallow  prosaic  sands  —  or  it  may  be  that,  maimed  and  bat- 
tered, not  even  the  anchor  of  hope  remaining,  she  crawls  back 
to  the  old  harbor  to  lie  a  poor  wreck,  dismantled  little  by 
little  as  the  days  go  by. 

Some  men  are  more  like  steamboats  than  common  vessels. 
They  bear  a  hidden  fire  in  their  bosoms,  and  rush  on  against 
wind  and  weather  —  their  smoky  flag  streams  like  the  black 
plume  of  a  specter  horseman,  their  wheels  are  giant  spurs 
dashed  into  the  ribs  of  the  waves,  and  the  unruly,  foaming 
element  must  bend  to  their  will  like  a  courser.  But  the  boiler 
often  bursts,  and  we  are  devoured  by  the  fire  within  us. 

But  I  will  abandon  all  metaphors,  and  get  aboard  a  real 
ship  sailing  from  Hamburg  to  Amsterdam.  It  was  a  Swed- 
ish vessel,  carrying  bar-iron,  as  well  as  the  hero  of  these 
pages  ;  and,  as  return  freight,  probably  took  stockfish  to 
Hamburg  or  owls  to  Athens. 

The  banks  of  the  Elbe  are  lovely,  especially  below  Altona, 
about  Rainville.  Klopstock  lies  buried  not  far  away.  I  do 
not  know  a  spot  where  a  dead  poet  could  better  lie  buried. 
For  a  live  poet  to  live  there  is  harder.  How  often  I  sought 
thy  grave,  bard  of  the  Messiah,  who  sangest  the  sufferings  of 
Jesus  with  such  moving  truth  !  But  thou  hast  lived  in  the 
Konigstrasse  behind  the  Jungfernstieg,  long  enough  to  know 
how  prophets  are  crucified. 

78 


Sea  Voyage.  79 

On  the  second  day  we  came  to  Cuxhaven,  which  is  a  colony 
of  Hamburg.  The  residents  are  employees  of  the  republic, 
and  lead  a  pleasant  life.  If  they  are  freezing  in  winter,  they 
have  blankets  sent  them  from  Hamburg,  and  lemonade  in  the 
hot  summer  days.  A  wise  and  grave  senator  resides  there  as 
proconsul.  His  salary  is  twenty  thousand  marks,  and  he  rules 
over  fifty  thousand  souls.  There  are  sea  baths  there,  which 
have  the  advantage  over  other  sea  baths  of  being  also  Elbe 
baths.  A  great  dike  with  a  walk  on  the  top  leads  to  Ritze- 
biittel,  which  belongs  to  Cuxhaven. 

I  shall  never  forget  this  first  sea  voyage.  My  old  great-aunt 
had  told  me  so  many  stories  of  water  nymphs  that  all  came 
back  to  me  now.  I  could  sit  on  deck  for  hours,  recalling  the 
old  stories  ;  and  when  the  waves  murmured  I  seemed  to  hear 
my  great-aunt's  voice.  If  I  turned  my  eyes,  I  saw  her  sitting 
before  me,  with  her  one  remaining  tooth,  and  her  lips  fast 
moving  as  she  told  the  story  of  the  Flying  Dutchman. 

I  should  have  liked  to  see  the  mermaids,  sitting  on  the 
white  rocks  combing  their  green  hair  ;  but  I  only  heard  their 
songs. 

However  hard  I  looked  down  into  the  clear  water,  I  could 
not  see  the  buried  cities,  where  men  far,  far  down,  live  watery 
lives,  transformed  into  some  fishlike  shape.  They  say  the 
salmon  and  old  roach  sit  at  the  windows  dressed  like  ladies, 
fanning  themselves  and  looking  down  into  the  streets,  where 
shellfish  swim  by  in  councilors'  robes,  while  coquettish  young 
herrings  stare  at  them  through  their  eyeglasses,  and  crabs  and 
lobsters  and  suchlike  common  crustaceans  wallow  about. 
But  I  could  not  look  deep  enough,  and  only  heard  the  bells 
ringing  below  us. 

In  the  night  I  saw  a  great  ship  with  swelling  sails  of  a  blood 
red  pass  by,  like  a  black  giant  in  a  scarlet  cloak.  Was  it  the 
Flying  Dutchman  ? 


BOOK  SECOND 

STUDENT  YEARS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
JBonn. 

SOON  after  this  came  a  great  commercial  crisis,  my  father 
and  many  of  our  friends  lost  their  property,  the  business  bubble 
burst  more  suddenly  and  disastrously  than  the  imperial  one, 
and  my  mother  had  to  find  a  new  career  for  me. 

She  thought  I  had  better  study  law.  She  had  observed  how, 
long  ago  in  England,  and  also  in  France  and  constitutional 
Germany,  the  legal  profession  had  taken  the  lead  in  all  things ; 
and  especially  that  advocates,  by  reason  of  their  practice  in 
public  speaking,  played  the  important  parts,  and  reached  the 
highest  places  in  the  state.  My  mother  was  quite  right.  As 
in  the  newly  erected  University  at  Bonn  the  law  faculty  em- 
braced the  most  celebrated  professors,  my  mother  sent  me 
straight  to  Bonn,  where  I  sat  at  the  feet  of  Mackeldey  and 
Welcker,  and  fed  on  the  manna  of  their  learning. 

In  the  year  1819,  I  attended  in  one  and  the  same  semester 
four  courses,  in  which  German  antiquities  of  the  remotest 
times  were  taught,  viz.  (i)  The  history  of  the  German  lan- 
guage, by  Schlegel,  who  for  nearly  three  months  developed 
the  strangest  theories  of  the  origin  of  the  Germans  ;  (2)  The 
"  Germania  "  of  Tacitus,  by  Arndt,  who  sought  in  the  old  Ger- 
man forests  those  virtues  he  missed  in  the  modern  salons  ;  (3) 
State  laws  of  Germany,  by  Hullmann,  whose  historical  views 
are  vague,  to  say  the  least ;  and  (4),  The  Primitive  Ages  in 
Germany,  by  Radloff,  who  had  only  got  as  far  as  Sesostris, 
when  the  semester  came  to  an  end. 


A  German  poet  in  those  days  was  a  man  who  wore  a  torn 
and  shabby  coat ;  wrote  baptismal  or  wedding  odes  for  a  thaler 
apiece  ;  when  good  society  frowned  on  him  consoled  himself 
with  good  drink  and  sometimes  lay  in  the  gutter  of  an  even- 
ing, caressed  by  the  pitying  beams  of  Luna.  As  they  grew 
old,  these  men  fell  into  lower  depths  of  poverty,  but  a  poverty 

83 


84  'Bonn. 

free  from  all  care,  except  as  to  where  the  most  schnapps  could 
be  got  for  the  least  money. 

Even  I  had  entertained  these  ideas  of  a  German  poet. 
How  great  was  my  wonder  when,  as  a  young  man,  in  1819,  I 
went  to  the  University  of  Bonn,  and  there  had  the  honor  of 
seeing  face  to  face  that  poetic  genius,  A.  W.  Schlegel.  With 
the  exception  of  Napoleon,  he  was  the  first  great  man  I  had 
seen,  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  lofty  spectacle.  I  can  feel 
to-day  the  holy  tremor  that  ran  through  my  soul,  when  I  stood 
before  his  desk  and  heard  him  speak.  I  wore  a  blue  pilot- 
cloth  coat,  a  red  cap,  long  fair  hair  and  no  gloves.  Herr 
Schlegel  wore  kid  gloves,  and  was  dressed  in  the  latest  Pari- 
sian style  ;  he  breathed  a  perfume  of  good  company  and  eau 
de  mille  fieurs,  and  was  grace  and  elegance  personified.  When 
he  spoke  of  the  Lord  Chancellor  of  England,  he  added  "my 
friend  "  ;  by  his  side  was  a  footman,  in  the  baronial  Schlegel 
livery,  to  snuff  the  wax  candles  in  their  silver  candlesticks  ; 
and  a  glass  of  sugar  and  water  stood  within  the  wonderful 
man's  reach.  Liveried  servants !  Waxlights  !  Silver  can- 
dlestick !  My  friend  the  Lord  High  Chancellor  of  England  ! 
Kid  gloves  !  Sugar  and  water  !  What  unheard-of  things  in 
a  German  professor's  lecture  !  All  this  splendor  dazzled  us 
young  fellows,  not  a  little — especially  me  ;  and  I  wrote  three 
odes  on  Herr  Schlegel.  .  . 


The  fellest  snake — the  dagger-stab  of  doubt  ; 
The  fellest  poison — doubt  of  our  own  strength  ; 
I  felt  these  gnaw  the  marrow  of  my  life  ; 
I  was  a  tender  twig,  whose  props  were  failing. 

Then  hadst  thou  pity  on  the  tender  twig, 
And  round  thy  hopeful  words  thou  badst  it  twine  ; 
To  thee  be  thanks,  high  master,  if  hereafter 
The  tender  shoot  should  ever  bear  a  flower. 

Oh,  mayst  thou  sometimes  yet  keep  watchful  guard, 

Till,  grown  into  a  tree,  it  deck  the  garden 

Of  that  kind  fairy  that  chose  thee  for  her  child. 

From  my  old  nurse  I  learned  that  garden's  story  ; 
There  sweet  mysterious  sounds  are  ever  ringing, 
The  flowers  all  talking,  and  the  trees  all  singing. 


To  Scblegel.  85 

n. 

In  a  hoop  petticoat,  bedecked  with  flowers, 
And  patches  stuck  upon  her  painted  cheeks, 
With  pointed  shoes  most  curiously  embroidered, 
With  high  piled  hair,  and  strangled  waspish  waist, 

So  was  the  shameful  muse  rigged  and  bedizened, 
That  came  to  clasp  thee  in  her  lewd  embrace. 
But  from  her  path  thou  turnedst  thee  aside, 
To  wander  forth,  by  some  dim  instinct  guided. 

There  in  the  wilds  thou  cam'st  upon  a  castle, 
Wherein  there  lay,  like  form  of  purest  marble, 
A  lovely  maid  in  magic  slumber  buried. 

But  at  thy  greeting  the  strong  spell  was  broken, 
Germania's  stately  muse  awoke,  and  smiling 
She  sank  into  thine  arms  with  love  o'erpowered. 


in. 

With  that  which  is  thine  own  not  satisfied, 
Thou  covetest  the  Niebelungen  treasure, 
Seekest  rich  wonders  from  the  banks  of  Thames, 
And  boldly  pluckest  flowers  from  Tagus'  side. 

From  out  the  Tiber  thou  hast  jewels  rescued, 

The  Seine  must  to  thy  merit  tribute  pay, 

Thou  pressest  onward  yet  to  Bramah's  realms, 

And  wouldst  bring  pearls  from  out  the  far-off  Ganges. 

Oh,  greedy  man,  I  bid  thee  rest  contented 
With  that  which  unto  few  was  ever  given  ; 
Turn  thee  to  spending  now  and  not  to  hoarding. 
And  with  the  treasures,  that  with  zeal  untiring 
Thou  hast  from  north  and  south  heaped  up  together, 
Enrich  the  scholar  now,  thy  glad  inheritor. 


BONN,  isth  July,  1820. 
To  Fritz   V.  Beughem  : 

I  was  right  glad,  dear  Fritz,  to  get  a  letter  from  you.     I  am 
pleased  to  learn  from  it  that  you  are  well  ;  but  see  with  sor- 


86  'Bonn. 

row  that  you  who  once  loved  to  rhyme  musen  with  busen, 
now  mean  to  tear  yourself  quite  away  from  the  busen  [bosomj 
of  the  musen  [muses].  I  too,  and  for  the  sake  of  fair  bosoms, 
neglected  the  muses.  You  see  how  1  was  punished  by  poeti- 
cal barrenness  last  winter,  which  so  enraged  me  that  I  fancied 
myself  forever  abandoned  by  the  muses,  and  could  not  even 
write  a  song  in  complaint  of  it.  But  old  Schlegel,  who  knows 
how  to  deal  with  women,  has  reconciled  the  angry  fair  ones 
with  me. 

I  could  tell  you  many  pleasant  things  about  my  relations 
with  Schlegel.  He  was  delighted  with  my  poetry,  and  pleas- 
antly surprised  at  its  originality.  I  am  too  conceited  to  won- 
der at  this.  The  oftener  I  meet  him,  the  morel  see  what  a 
great  head  he  has,  and  that  it  can  be  said  of  him, 

Graces  invisible  press  around  him, 
To  learn  new  charms  from  him. 

His  first  question  always  is,  how  the  publication  of  my 
poems  is  coming  on  ;  and  he  seems  anxious  for  it.  You,  too, 
dear  Fritz,  ask  me  about  this.  Unfortunately,  by  reason  of 
the  many  corrections  I  have  made  by  Schlegel's  advice,  I  have 
still  a  great  many  old  poems  to  copy  out  and  many  new  poems 
and  metrical  translations  from  the  English  to  add.  I  suc- 
ceed very  well  with  these  last,  which  will  show  my  poetical 
dexterity.  Enough  of  self-praise. 

You  cannot  imagine,  dear  Fritz,  how  often  and  how  fondly 
I  think  of  you.  Especially  as  I  am  now  living  a  sad,  sick  and 
lonely  life.  In  the  present  state  of  things,  to  seek  new  friend- 
ships is  a  dubious  and  senseless  thing  ;  and  as  to  my  old 
friends,  I  seem  no  longer  to  please  them. 

Steinmann,  a  Jew,  a  poet,  Prince  Wittgenstein,  and  his  in- 
tendant  are  all  my  present  society.  During  the  holidays,  I  shall 
stay  here  and  grind,  but  in  October  I  mean  to  run  off  to  Got- 
tingen,  and  on  my  way  back  I  will  stop  at  Hamm  to  see 
you. 

That  is  one  of  the  friendly  roses,  so  sparsely  strewn  in  the 
path  of  my  life. 

Oh,  my  dear  Fritz,  the  thorns  are  every  moment  pricking  me  ; 
but  they  cannot  wound  me,  as  once  they  did.  I  see  now  that 
men  are  fools  when  they  complain  of  great  sorrows.  Sorrows 
are  not  great.  It  is  the  breast  that  harbors  them  that  is  too 
narrow. 


To  f.  CB.  Rousseau.  87 


NIGHT    ON    THE    DRACHENFELS. 

By  midnight  we  had  reached  the  castle  height  ; 

A  wood-fire  burned  beneath  its  ramparts  gray  ; 

And  where  the  joyous  students  round  it  lay, 
Germania's  war  songs  echoed  through  the  night. 

We  drank  her  health  in  Rhenish  cups  filled  high; 
While  castle  ghosts  watched  on  the  towers  steep, 
And  specter  knights  about  us  seemed  to  creep, 

While  the  fog  maidens  mistily  swept  by. 

From  the  high  tower's  wall  a  hollow  groan, 
And  rattling  stones  and  the  owl's  dismal  moan, 
Came  on  the  raging  breath  of  north  wind  old. 

Such  was  the  night,  dear  friend,  I  had  to  pass 
Upon  the  Drachenfels — and  then  alas  ! 
I  went  home  with  a  horrid  cough  and  cold. 


[TO   J.    B.    ROUSSEAU.] 

Thy  friendly  greeting  bids  me  bare  my  breast, 
And  all  its  secret  chambers  open  fling  ; 
The  air  is  stirred,  as  by  an  angel's  wing, 

And  welcome  visions  rise  of  home  and  rest. 

Once  more  I  see  the  Rhine's  blue  waters  flow, 
Towers  and  Alps  mirrored  on  its  surface  clear  ; 
The  golden  grapes  swing  in  each  vineyard  near ; 

The  pickers  clamber  up  from  row  to  row. 

Oh,  could  I  come  to  thee,  truest  of  all, 

That  holdest  fast  to  me,  even  as  clings, 
The  ivy  green  upon  a  ruined  wall — 

Oh,  could  I  come  to  thee,  friend  true  and  dear, 

List  to  thy  lays,  while  loud  the  redbreast  sings, 
With  the  Rhine's  billows  gently  murmuring  near. 


CHAPTER  II. 
OLfttle  Werontca. 

WHETHER  it  be  the  monotonous  stroke  of  the  oars,  or  the 
motion  of  the  boat,  or  the  scent  of  the  river-banks  that  is  so 
pleasant,  certain  it  is  that  the  saddest  traveler  is  wonderfully 
soothed  when  he  finds  himself  gliding  on  a  summer  evening 
over  the  clear,  sweet  waters  of  the  Rhine  in  a  light  skiff. 
Good-hearted  Father  Rhine  cannot  bear  to  see  his  children 
weep  ;  but  dries  their  tears,  rocks  them  in  his  arms,  tells  them 
his  prettiest  stories,  and  promises  them  his  richest  treasures — 
possibly  even  the  Nibelungen  treasure. 

Oh,  it  is  a  fair  land,  full  of  love  and  sunshine.  The  blue 
stream  reflects  the  banks,  with  their  ruined  castles  and 
woods  and  antique  towns.  Of  a  summer  evening  the  town 
folk  sit  before  the  house  door,  chattering  fast  while  they 
drink  out  of  great  tankards — how  the  wine  promises  well, 
thank  God  !  and  how  the  courts  ought  to  be  open  to  every- 
body, and  how  Marie  Antoinette  was  guillotined  with  per- 
fect composure,  and  how  the  monopoly  raises  the  price  of 
tobacco,  and  how  all  men  are  equal. 

I  never  cared  for  such  talk,  but  preferred  to  sit  with  the 
girls  in  the  arched  window,  laughed  because  they  laughed, 
and  let  them  slap  my  face  with  flowers  ;  and  then  pretended 
to  be  very  angry  till  they  told  me  their  secrets  or  some 
wonderful  story  or  other.  Pretty  Gertrude  was  crazy  with 
delight  when  I  sat  down  by  her.  She  was  a  girl  like  a  flaming 
rose  ;  and  when  she  fell  on  my  neck  once  I  thought  she 
would  take  fire  and  burn  up  in  my  arms.  The  fair  Katherine 
was  overflowing  with  affection  when  she  spoke  to  me,  and  her 
eyes  were  of  a  blue  pure  and  deep  as  I  never  saw  in  a  human 
being  or  an  animal,  and  seldom  in  a  flower  ;  it  was  pleasant 
to  look  into  them,  and  gave  one  many  sweet  thoughts.  But 
beautiful  Hedwig  loved  me  ;  for  when  I  drew  near,  she  hung 
her  head  till  the  black  locks  fell  over  her  blushing  face,  and 
her  bright  eyes  were  like  stars  shining  in  the  dark  heavens. 
Her  bashful  lips  uttered  no  word,  and  I  could  find  nothing  to 

88 


Joan.  89 

say  to  her.  I  coughed,  and  she  trembled.  She  often  got  her 
sister  to  beg  me  not  to  climb  about  the  rocks  so  carelessly, 
and  not  to  bathe  in  the  Rhine  when  I  was  heated  with  waltz- 
ing or  drinking.  I  often  overheard  her  earnest  prayer  before 
the  Virgin  that  stood  in  a  niche  in  the  hall,  decked  out  with 
gold  leaf  and  lighted  by  a  lamp  that  was  always  burning.  I 
distinctly  heard  her  pray  to  God's  mother,  "  to  keep  him  from 
climbing,  drinking,  and  bathing."  I  should  have  certainly 
fallen  in  love  with  the  beautiful  girl,  had  she  been  indifferent ; 
but  I  was  indifferent  to  her  because  I  knew  she  loved  me. 

The  pretty  Joan  was  a  cousin  of  the  three  sisters,  and  I 
was  fond  of  sitting  by  her.  She  knew  many  beautiful  legends; 
and  when  she  pointed  out  of  the  window  with  her  white  hand 
at  the  mountains,  where  all  she  was  telling  me  had  happened, 
my  mind  was  fascinated  ;  the  old  knights  rose  out  of  the 
ruined  castles  and  stood  before  my  eyes,  slashing  away  at 
each  other's  iron  suits  ;  the  Lorelei  stood  on  the  mountain 
peak  and  sent  down  her  sweet,  fatal  song,  and  the  Rhine 
murmured  in  quiet,  soothing,  yet  strangely  tantalizing  tones  ; 
and  the  beautiful  Joanna  gave  me  a  look  so  strange,  so  loving, 
so  mysteriously  sad — as  if  she  were  a  part  of  all  she  related. 
She  was  a  slim,  pale  girl,  of  a  pensive  nature  ;  she  was  mortally 
ill  ;  her  eyes  were  as  clear  as  truth  itself,  her  lips  were 
curved,  and  there  was  a  whole  history  in  her  face — but  a 
holy  history — Was  it  a  love  story  ?  I  know  not,  and  had  not 
the  courage  to  ask  her.  When  I  had  looked  at  her  for  a 
while  I  was  calm  and  cheerful,  as  if  it  were  Sunday  in  my 
heart,  and  angels  were  praising  God  there. 

In  these  good  hours  I  told  her  stories  of  my  childhood, 
and  she  listened  earnestly  ;  and,  strange  !  when  I  could  not 
recall  names,  she  reminded  me  of  them.  When  I  asked  her 
in  wonder  how  she  knew  these  names,  she  answered  with  a 
smile  that  she  had  heard  them  from  the  birds  who  had  built 
their  nests  on  the  moldings  outside  of  her  window  ;  and 
would  have  persuaded  me  that  they  were  the  very  birds  that  as 
a  child  I  had  bought  with  my  pocket  money  from  hardhearted 
peasant  children,  and  set  free.  But  I  believe  she  knew  every- 
thing, because  she  was  so  pale,  and  died  so  soon  after. 
She  knew  when  she  should  die,  and  wished  me  to  leave 
Andernach  the  day  before.  When  we  parted,  she  gave  me 
both  her  hands — they  were  white,  sweet  hands,  and  pure  as 
the  host — and  said,  "  You  are  good,  but  if  you  are  ever  bad, 
think  of  little  dead  Veronica." 


90  Little  Veronica. 


Did  the  chattering  birds  teach  her  this  name  also  ?  I  hac 
often  racked  my  brain  for  hours  trying  to  remember  the 
dear  name. 

Now  that  I  have  it,  my  earliest  childhood  will  bloom  agair 
in  my  memory.  I  am  again  a  child,  playing  with  other  chil 
dren  in  the  Schlossplatz  at  Dusseldorf  on  the  Rhine. 


It  was  a  bright  frosty  autumn  day,  when  a  young  man,  whc 
had  the  air  of  a  student,  was  slowly  walking  in  the  alley  o: 
the  Hofgarten  at  Dusseldorf — often  kicking  up  in  a  boyisl 
way  the  leaves  that  strewed  the  ground,  and  often  looking 
sadly  up  at  the  dry  trees,  where  a  few  golden  leaves  were  stil 
hanging.  When  he  thus  looked  upward,  he  recalled  the  word; 
of  Glaukos ; 

"  Like  to  the  leaves  in  the  wood,  so  are  mankind's  generations 
Now  the  wind  strews  them  on  earth,  and  presently  others 
Hang  on  the  budding  trees,  when  comes  the  new  life  o 

springtime  ; 
So  generations  of  men  :    one  grows    when   another    hai 

vanished." 

In  earlier  days  the  young  man  had  looked  on  these  treei 
with  far  different  feelings  ;  for  he  was  then  a  boy,  and  wai 
looking  for  birds'  nest,  and  lady-birds,  which  he  loved  t( 
watch  humming  gayly  over  the  bright  world,  and  rejoicing 
over  a  juicy  leaflet,  a  dewdrop,  or  the  warm  rays  of  the  sun 
or  the  sweet  scent  of  the  herbs.  The  boy's  heart  was  as  ligh 
as  the  fluttering  insects.  But  now  his  heart  had  grown  older 
the  sun  no  longer  shone  within  it,  its  flowers  had  faded,  anc 
the  sweet  dream  of  love  had  fled — nothing  was  left  in  th< 
poor  heart  but  courage  and  grief.  To  speak  the  sad  truth— 
that  heart  was  mine. 

On  that  day  I  had  come  back  to  my  native  town,  but  did 
not  mean  to  pass  the  night  there ;  for  I  longed  to  be  ai 
Godesberg,  to  sit  at  my  sweet  friend's  feet,  and  tell  her  oi 
little  Veronica.  I  had  been  to  the  dear  graves.  Of  livinj 
friends  I  had  found  only  an  uncle  and  an  aunt.  If  I  saw  ; 
few  familiar  faces  in  the  street,  none  knew  me,  and  the  towi 
itself  looked  at  me  with  a  strange  eye.  Many  houses  hai 
been  painted  over,  strange  faces  looked  from  the  windows 
shabby  sparrows  flew  round  the  chimneys — all  was  as  deac 


The  Hofgarten  ^visited.  91 

yet  as  fresh,  as  lettuce  grown  in  a  churchyard.  Only  the  old 
Elector  knew  me  ;  he  stood  in  his  old  place,  but  seemed  to 
have  grown  thinner.  As  he  stood  in  the  center  of  the  market, 
he  had  seen  all  the  evils  of  the  times  ;  and  one  cannot  fatten 
on  such  sights.  I  was  in  a  dream  ;  and  I  thought  of  the 
stories  of  enchanted  cities,  and  hurried  out  through  the  gate 
for  fear  of  waking  too  soon.  I  missed  many  a  tree  in  the 
Hofgarten  ;  many  were  decaying,  and  the  four  great  poplars 
that  used  to  look  like  green  giants  had  grown  small.  Some 
pretty  girls  were  walking  about  in  gay  colors  like  bright 
tulips.  And  I  had  known  these  tulips  when  they  were  little 
bulbs  ;  for,  ah  !  they  were  the  children  of  our  neighbors,  with 
whom  I  had  played  at  "  Princess  in  the  Tower."  But  the 
fair  maidens  1  had  known  as  blushing  rosebuds  were  now 
faded  roses  ;  and  on  many  fair  brows  whose  proud  beauty 
had  entranced  me,  old  Saturn  had  traced  deep  wrinkles  with 
his  scythe.  Now  for  the  first  time,  but,  ah  !  far  too  late,  I 
found  out  the  meaning  of  the  looks  they  used  to  cast  on  the 
youth.  In  the  meanwhile  I  had  seen  in  foreign  parts  many 
stars  of  the  same  order  in  fair  eyes.  I  was  greatly  moved 
when  a  man  took  off  his  hat  to  me,  whom  I  had  known  rich 
and  respectable  and  who  had  since  sunk  into  beggary.  How 
we  see  in  all  things  that  when  a  man  begins  to  fall,  he  falls  as 
if  by  Newton's  law,  faster  and  faster  into  misery.  One  man 
seemed  quite  unchanged — the  little  baron,  who  danced  along 
the  path  of  the  Hofgarten  as  smart  as  ever,  one  hand  holding 
his  left  coattail  high  in  air,  while  he  flourished  his  slender 
cane  in  the  other.  It  was  still  the  same  friendly  little  face, 
its  bloom  somewhat  concentrated  in  the  nose  ;  still  the  same 
little  sugar-loaf  hat,  still  the  same  little  cue,  except  that  a  few 
white  hairs  strayed  out  of  it  where  black  hairs  used  to  be. 
Cheerful  as  he  looked,  however,  I  knew  that  the  poor  baron 
had  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble  ;  his  face  would  have  denied 
it,  but  the  white  hairs  betrayed  him  behind  his  back.  And 
even  they  would  have  denied  it,  and  wagged  with  piteous 
cheerfulness. 

I  was  not  tired  ;  but  I  had  a  mind  to  sit  once  more  on  the 
wooden  seat  whereon  I  had  once  carved  my  girl's  name.  I 
could  hardly  find  it,  so  many  others  had  since  been  carved 
there.  Ah  !  I  had  once  fallen  asleep  on  this  bench,  and  dreamed 
of  joy  and  love.  "  Dreams  are  bubbles."  The  old  games 
too,  came  back  to  me,  and  the  old,  beautiful  stories.  But  a 
false  new  game  and  a  hateful  new  story  thrust  themselves  for- 


92  Little  Veronica. 


ward — and  it  was  the  story  of  two  poor  souls  that  were  false 
to  one  another,  and  at  last  grew  so  false  that  they  broke 
faith  with  God.  It  is  a  sad  story,  and  if  one  had  nothing 
better  to  do  he  might  weep  over  it.  O  God  !  The  world  was 
once  so  fair,  the  birds  sang  hymns  in  thy  praise,  and  little 
Veronica  looked  at  me  with  quiet  eyes  as  we  sat  by  the  mar- 
ble statue  in  the  Schlossplatz.  On  one  side  stands  the  old 
weather-beaten  castle,  which  is  haunted  at  night  by  a  lady  in 
black  without  a  head,  who  wanders  about  with  long  rustling 
garments.  On  the  other  side  is  a  high  white  building,  in 
whose  upper  rooms  pictures  shine  brightly  from  their  golden 
frames  ;  while  below  are  thousands  of  volumes,  at  which  little 
Veronica  and  I  would  stare  when  good  Ursula  lifted  us  up  to 
the  great  windows.  Later,  when  I  was  a  big  boy,  I  clambered 
every  day  up  the  ladders,  and  took  down  the  topmost  books, 
and  read  until  I  was  afraid  of  nothing,  at  least  of  no  women 
without  heads,  and  grew  so  learned  that  I  forgot  all  the  old 
games  and  pictures  and  stories  and  little  Veronica,  and  even 
her  very  name. 

As  we  walked  on,  the  child  played  with  a  flower  she  held 
in  her  hand  ;  it  was  a  sprig  of  mignonette.  Suddenly  she 
put  it  to  her  lips,  and  then  handed  it  to  me.  When  I  came 
home  for  the  holidays  the  next  year  little  Veronica  was  dead. 
And  since  then,  in  spite  of  all  the  vacillations  of  my  heart, 
her  memory  has  never  died.  Why  ?  how  ?  Is  it  not  strange, 
mysterious  ?  When  I  think  of  this  story,  a  sad  feeling,  like 
the  memory  of  a  great  misfortune,  comes  over  me. 


While  I  was  sitting  on  the  bench  in  the  Hofgarten  and 
dreaming  of  the  past,  I  heard  behind  me  the  confused  sound 
of  voices,  bewailing  the  fate  of  the  poor  Frenchmen,  who  had 
been  taken  in  the  Russian  war  and  sent  as  prisoners  to  Siberia, 
and  there  detained  for  several  years  after  peace  was  declared, 
and  had  but  now  returned.  Raising  my  eyes,  I  beheld  these 
charity-children  of  Fame.  Bare  want  stared  through  every 
rent  in  their  tattered  uniforms  ;  deep,  plaintive  eyes  looked 
from  their  wasted  faces  ;  but,  sore,  tired,  and  mostly  lame  as 
they  were,  they  had  a  sort  of  martial  stride  ;  and,  strangely 
enough,  a  drummer  with  his  drum  staggered  at  their  head. 
With  an  inward  shudder,  I  thought  of  the  tale  of  the  soldiers 
who,  fallen  in  battle  by  day,  rise  from  the  field  at  night,  and 


[Monsieur  Le  Grand.  93 

with  the  drum  at  their  head  march  onward  to  their  native 
land. 

And  truly  the  poor  French  drummer  looked  as  if  he  had 
risen,  half  moldering,  from  the  grave.  He  was  a  mere  shadow 
in  a  dirty  ragged  capote,  a  dead,  yellow  face,  with  a  great 
mustache  hanging  sadly  over  the  shriveled  lips ;  his  eyes 
were  like  burnt-out  coals,  with  hardly  a  spark  still  living — yet 
by  one  of  these  sparks  I  recognized  M.  Le  Grand. 

He  knew  me  too,  and  drew  me  down  upon  the  grass  ;  and 
there  we  sat,  as  we  used  to  do  in  the  old  times,  when  he  taught 
me  French  and  modern  history  on  the  drum.  It  was  the  same 
old  drum  ;  and  I  could  not  but  wonder  how  he  had  saved  it 
from  the  greed  of  the  Russians.  He  began  to  drum  in  his  old 
way,  without  speaking  a  word.  But  though  his  lips  were 
pressed  sadly  together,  his  eyes  spoke  all  the  more  plainly,  as 
they  sparkled  with  triumph,  while  he  drummed  the  old  marches. 
The  poplars  near  by  trembled  as  he  rattled  out  "  March  of  the 
Red  Guillotine."  As  of  old,  he  drummed  the  struggle  for 
liberty,  the  battles,  the  deeds  of  the  emperor  ;  and  it  seemed  as 
if  the  drum  were  a  living  creature,  rejoicing  to  utter  its  inward 
delight.  Once  more  I  heard  the  cannon's  roar,  the  whistle  of 
the  bullets,  the  crash  of  battle  ;  I  saw  the  Guards  brave  in 
death,  I  saw  the  waving  flags,  I  saw  the  emperor  on  his  horse. 
But  a  sad  tone  crept  into  the  joyous  notes,  the  drum-beats 
gave  forth  cries  wherein  the  wildest  triumph  and  the  deepest 
woe  were  strangely  mingled — it  was  a  triumphal  march  and  a 
dead  march  in  one.  Le  Grand's  eyes  stared  like  a  ghost's, 
and  I  saw  in  them  a  great  white  field  of  snow  strewn  with 
corpses.  It  was  the  battle  of  Moscowa. 

I  would  never  have  believed  that  the  stiff  old  drum  could 
give  such  melancholy  cries  as  M.  Le  Grand  now  drew  from 
it.  It  was  like  drumming  tears,  and  they  sounded  lower 
and  lower,  and  sighs  came  from  Le  Grand's  bosom  like  sad 
echoes.  He  grew  weaker  and  more  ghostlike  ;  his  hands 
shook  with  cold  ;  he  sat  as  in  a  dream,  drumming  in  the  air, 
and  listening  as  if  to  far-off  voices.  And  then  at  last  he 
turned  on  me  a  deep,  deep  imploring  look — I  understood 
him — and  then  his  head  fell  forward  upon  his  drum. 

M.  Le  Grand  never  drummed  again  in  this  world.  Nor 
did  his  drum  ever  give  out  another  sound.  Never  should  it 
serve  an  enemy  of  liberty  to  beat  a  slavish  tattoo.  I  had 
understood  Le  Grand's  last  imploring  look  ;  I  drew  the  dagger 
from  my  cane,  and  thrust  it  through  the  head  of  the  drum. 


94  Little  Veronica. 


Madame,  I  will  begin  a  new  chapter,  and  tell  you  how,  after 
Le  Grand's  death,  I  went  to  Godesberg. 

When  I  reached  Godesberg  I  sat  down  again  at  my  fair 
friend's  feet ;  a  brown  dachshund  stretched  himself  at  my 
side  ;  and  both  of  us  looked  up  into  her  eyes. 

I  and  the  brown  dachshund  lay  still  at  the  beautiful  woman's 
feet  and  looked  and  listened.  She  sat  beside  an  old  gray 
soldier — a  knightly  figure,  with  a  scar  across  his  stern  brow. 
They  talked  of  the  seven  towns  which  lay  bathed  in  the 
evening  light,  and  the  blue  Rhine,  flowing  by  us  full  and 
calm.  What  did  we  care  for  the  seven  towns  and  the  sunset, 
and  the  blue  Rhine  and  the  white-sailed  boats  upon  it,  and  the 
music  that  rose  from  one  of  the  boats,  and  the  blockhead  of  a 
student,  singing  in  such  a  melting  and  sweet  tone — I  and  the 
brown  dog  ?  We  looked  in  her  eyes  and  looked  at  her  face, 
shining  forth  from  her  black  hair  like  the  moon  among  dark 
clouds.  They  were  noble  Greek  features,  with  proudly 
curved  lips,  round  which  played  sadness  and  holiness  and  a 
childlike  humor  ;  and  when  she  spoke  her  words  were  some- 
what deep-breathed,  almost  like  sighs,  and  then  again  sud- 
denly bursting  forth  in  ringing  tones  ;  and  when  she  spoke, 
and  her  words  fell  like  a  rain  of  flowers  from  her  lovely  lips — 
oh,  then  the  evening  light  spread  over  my  soul,  the  memories 
of  my  childhood  echoed  through  me,  and  over  all,  like  tinkling 
bells,  I  heard  the  voice  of  little  Veronica.  I  took  my  fair 
friend's  hand  and  put  it  to  my  eyes — till  the  ringing  ceased  in 
my  soul.  Then  up  I  sprang  and  laughed,  the  dog  barked, 
and  the  old  general's  brow  grew  sterner  ;  so  I  sat  down  again 
and  took  her  hand  once  more,  and  told  her  of  little  Veronica. 


Madame,  you  cannot  think  how  pretty  little  Veronica  looked 
as  she  lay  in  her  coffin.  The  lighted  candles  standing  round 
her  cast  their  glimmer  over  the  white,  smiling  face,  and  over 
the  red  roses  and  the  rustling  gold  leaf  which  decked  her 
little  head  and  shroud.  Good  Ursula  had  led  me  to  the 
silent  chamber  in  the  evening  ;  and  when  I  saw  the  little 
body  and  the  lights  and  the  flowers  on  the  table  I  thought 
for  a  moment  it  was  the  fair  waxen  image  of  an  angel.  Then 
I  knew  the  dear  face,  and,  laughing,  asked  why  little  Veronica 
was  so  still.  And  Ursula  said,  "  Because  she  is  dead." 

And  when  she  said,  Because  she  is  dead 


The  Story  of  the  Knight.  95 

No,  I  will  not  tell  the  story  to-day  ;  it  would  take  too  long  ; 
and  I  must  first  speak  of  the  lame  magpie  that  used  to  go 
limping  round  the  Schlossplatz,  and  was  three  hundred  years 
old — and  I  should  get  melancholy.  I  have  a  sudden  fancy 
for  telling  another  story,  which  is  a  merry  one,  and  belongs 
here,  as  it  is  the  very  story  that  this  book  is  to  tell. 


In  the  knight's  bosom  all  was  darkness  and  woe.  The  dart 
of  calumny  had  pierced  his  soul,  and  as  he  went  on  through 
the  Place  of  St.  Mark  he  felt  as  though  his  heart  were  broken 
and  bleeding.  His  feet  failed  him  with  fatigue — all  day  long 
he  had  hunted  the  noble  beast,  and  it  was  hot  summer  time — 
the  sweat  stood  on  his  brow,  and  he  sighed  deeply  as  he 
stepped  into  his  gondola.  He  sat  absently  down  under  its 
black  roof,  and  the  white  waves  rocked  him  and  carried  him 
unheeding  along  the  well-known  track  to  the  Brenta  ;  and 
when  he  landed  at  the  well-known  palace  he  heard  that  Signora 
Laura  was  in  the  garden. 

She  was  standing  leaning  against  a  statue  of  Laocoon,  near 
the  red  rose  bush  at  the  end  of  the  terrace,  not  far  from  the 
weeping  willow  that  bent  sadly  over  the  passing  stream.  So 
she  stood  smiling,  a  fair  picture  of  love  half  hidden  in  the 
roses.  He  waked  as  from  a  dark  dream,  and  felt  an  atmos- 
phere of  tenderness  and  longing  breathed  around  him. 
"  Signora  Laura,"  he  said,  "  I  am  sad,  wounded  by  hate  and 
calumny."  Then  he  stopped  and  hesitated.  "  But  I  love 
you  " — and  a  tear  of  joy  rose  in  his  eye,  and  with  moist  eyes 
and  burning  lips  he  cried,  "  Be  mine.  Love  me  !  " 

An  impenetrable  veil  hangs  over  that  hour.  No  mortal 
knows  what  Signora  Laura  replied ;  and  when  her  good 
angel  in  heaven  was  asked,  he  hid  his  face  and  sighed  and 
was  silent. 

Long  stood  the  knight  alone  by  the  statue  of  Laocoon. 
His  face  was  distorted  and  white.  Unconsciously  he  scattered 
the  petals  of  the  roses  and  the  young  buds  :  the  bush  never 
bloomed  again.  A  nightingale  poured  forth  its  mad  com- 
plaint from  afar  ;  the  willow  drooped  sadly  ;  the  cool  waves 
of  the  Brenta  murmured  low  ;  night  rose  with  her  moon  and 
stars.  One  bright  star,  the  brightest  of  all,  fell  down  from 
heaven. 


CHAPTER   III. 
<56ttfn0en. 

THE  city  of  Gottingen,  celebrated  for  its  sausages  and  uni- 
versity, belongs  to  the  King  of  Hanover,  and  contains  999 
houses,  various  churches,  a  lying-in  hospital,  an  observatory, 
a  library,  and  a  cellar  under  the  townhall,  where  the  beer  is 
excellent.  The  city  itself  is  pretty,  and  particularly  attractive 
when  you  look  at  it  with  your  back.  It  must  have  existed  for 
a  long  time  ;  for  I  remember,  five  years  ago,  when  I  was  matric- 
ulated and  soon  after  rusticated,  it  already  wore  the  same  gray, 
overwise  look,  and  was  well  provided  with  watchmen,  poodles 
[university  beadles],  dissertations,  the-dansants,  washerwomen, 
compendiums,  roast  pigeons,  orders  of  the  Guelph,  car- 
riages for  doctorial  candidates,  pipebowls,  counselors  of 
court,  counselors  of  justice,  counselors  of  rustication,  prov- 
osts, and  other  nuisances  with  or  without  a  pro.  Some  even 
assert  that  the  town  was  built  at  the  epoch  of  the  emigration 
of  the  nations,  and  that  every  German  tribe  left  behind  it  a 
stray  representative  of  itself ;  and  that  from  these  sprang  all 
the  Vandals,  Frisians,  Schwabians,  Teutons,  Saxons,  Thurin- 
gians,  etc.,  who,  in  separate  tribes  and  distinguished  by  their 
own  caps  and  pipe  tassels,  stroll  along  the  Weender  Strasse, 
slash  one  another  on  the  bloody  fields  of  the  Rasenmiihle,  the 
Ritschenkrug,  and  Bovden's,  and  in  general  are  much  like  the 
folk  of  that  earlier  period  in  their  manners  and  customs — 
being  subject  to  the  rule  of  their  duces,  or  cocks,  as  they  are 
called,  in  conformity  with  an  ancient  code  known  as  the  Com- 
ment, and  worthy  of  a  place  in  the  legibus  barbarorum. 

The  inhabitants  of  Gottingen  may  be  generally  divided  into 
students,  professors,  philistines,  and  cattle,  the  four  classes 
being  by  no  means  sharply  defined.  To  set  down  the  names 
of  all  the  students  and  all  the  regular  and  irregular  professors 
would  take  too  long;  besides,  I  do  not  remember  the  names  of 
all  the  students,  and  a  good  many  of  the  professors  are  of  no 
name.  The  number  of  the  philistines  of  Gottingen  must  be 
very  great,  like  the  sands,  or,  better  still,  the  mud,  of  the  sea. 


<i/J  Study  of  Feet.  97 

When  I  saw  these  of  a  morning  with  their  dirty  faces  and 
white  bills,  planted  at  the  doors  of  the  academical  court,  I 
could  hardly  conceive  why  God  had  created  such  ragga- 
muffins. 

Further  details  concerning  the  town  of  Gottingen  can  be 
found  in  the  excellent  topography  of  it  by  Marx.  Though  I 
am  under  the  highest  obligations  to  the  author,  who  was  my 
physician  and  showed  me  much  kindness,  I  cannot  unreserv- 
edly commend  his  book,  and  must  reproach  him  for  not  hav- 
ing more  positively  contradicted  the  theory  that  the  Gottingen 
women  have  large  feet.  I  have  been  occupied  this  long  time 
on  a  refutation  of  this  assertion,  have  attended  lectures  on 
comparative  anatomy,  have  consulted  the  rarest  books  in 
the  library,  have  studied  for  hours  the  feet  of  the  ladies  walk- 
ing in  the  Weender  Strasse  and  many  learned  treatises,  and 
the -result  of  my  researches  will  embrace  (i)  feet  in  general  ; 
(2)  the  feet  of  old  women  ;  (3)  the  feet  of  elephants  ;  (4)  the 
feet  of  Gottingen  women  ;  (5)  a  compendium  of  all  that  is  said 
of  these  feet  in  Ullrich's  garden  ;  (6)  a  comprehensive  view 
of  other  things  in  connection  with  these  feet  ;  and  finally,  (7) 
if  I  can  find  any  paper  large  enough  I  shall  give  several  plates 
with  facsimiles  of  Gottingen  feet. 

GOTTINGEN,  October  29,  1820. 
To  Friedrich  Stdnmann  : 

.  .  .  Even  as  I  write  these  lines  my  joyous  mood  is  grad- 
ually fading  ;  the  old  sorrows  are  taking  possession  of  their 
old  tavern,  which  unluckily  is  my  bosom,  and  the  whole 
Sorrow  family  is  at  its  old  tricks  ;  the  blind  grandmother 
Sadness  comes  limping  in,  and  I  hear  a  newborn  daughter, 
Miss  Repentance,  as  she  was  christened,  weeping  ;  and  in  her 
cries  I  distinguish  the  words,  "  You  ought  to  have  stayed  at 
Bonn." 

These  are  disagreeable  words.  But  what  is  the  use  of  my 
howling  through  all  sorts  of  variations  and  sighing  the  whole 
gamut?  It  was  my  own  doing,  and  I  am  like  the  boy  who, 
when  he  had  lost  his  shoe  in  the  Rhine,  threw  his  stocking 
in  after  it  in  his  rage. 

Though  I  must  accuse  myself  by  saying  it,  I  will  honestly 
confess  that  I  am  horribly  bored  here.  An  odious,  stiff,  cut 
and  dried  tone.  All  live  here  as  secluded  as  monks.  You 
can  do  nothing  but  grind.  That  is  what  induced  me  to  come. 
Often  while  lounging  in  the  Willow  Path  of  my  heavenly  little 


98  Gottingen. 

town  of  Beul  toward  twilight  I  saw  the  Genius  of  Grinding 
rise  in  apotheosis  before  me,  in  dressing  gown  and  slippers, 
brandishing  Mackeldey's  "  Institutions "  in  one  hand  and 
pointing  to  the  towers  of  Georgia  Augusta  with  the  other. 
.  .  .  How  I  lived  while  I  was  there,  what  I  said  and  sang  at 
Beul,  and  how  I  idled  away  my  time  at  Bonn,  you  have 
doubtless  told  Rousseau  long  ago.  I  have  finished  the  third 
act  of  my  tragedy  ["Almansor  "] within  a  few  lines.  It  was  the 
hardest  and  longest  act.  I  hope  to  do  the  two  remaining  acts 
this  winter.  If  the  thing  does  not  please  the  public  it  will  at 
any  rate  make  a  great  sensation.  I  have  put  myself  into  it, 
with  all  my  paradoxes,  my  wisdom,  my  hate,  my  love,  and  my 
madness.  As  soon  as  it  is  ready  I  shall  send  it  at  once  to  the 
printer.  It  will  be  brought  out  on  the  stage — no  matter  when. 
The  thing  has  cost  me  a  deal  of  pains.  And  to  tell  the  truth 
I  begin  to  think  it  is  harder  to  write  a  good  tragedy  than  to 
swing  a  good  blade.  About  my  poems  in  my  next.  .  .  You 
see,  my  dear  Steinmann,  that,  contrary  to  my  usual  habit,  I 
have  written  a  good  deal  at  one  time.  .  . 

GOTTINGEN,  November  9,  1820. 
To  Friedrich  von  Beughem  : 

As  yet  nothing  in  this  learned  nest  pleases  me.  If  I  did 
not  know  by  experience  the  length  of  the  journey  I  would 
come  straight  back  to  Bonn.  Fashionable  dandies,  splendid 
editions  of  wishy-washy  prose  writers,  tiresome,  mushy  poets 
— there  you  have  the  prevailing  type  of  student  here.  The 
professors  are  more  leathery  than  at  Bonn.  But  Sartorius, 
who  reads  German  poetry,  and  by  whom  I  was  most  kindly 
received,  has  all  but  enchanted  me  ;  I  have  spent  whole  even- 
ings at  his  house. 

I  follow  Beneken's  course  on  the  old  German  language  with 
great  delight.  Just  think,  Fritz,  only  nine,  I  say  nine, 
students  attend  this  course.  Out  of  thirteen  hundred 
students,  of  whom  one  thousand  at  least  are  Germans,  only 
nine  have  any  interest  in  the  language,  the  inner  life,  and  the 
intellectual  remains  of  their  ancestors. 

I  remember  thankfully,  dear  Fritz,  all  the  kind  and 
affectionate  things  you  did  for  me  at  Hamm,  and  hope  to  be 
able  to  prove  my  gratitude  some  time.  You,  my  good  Fritz, 
are  one  of  the  few  men  through  whose  friendship  the  mind  is 
not  excited  to  follow  the  emotions  in  a  wild  dance,  but  feels 
roused,  healed  of  its  own  wounds,  and,  I  might  almost  say, 


Conscientious  Author.  99 


ennobled.  And  how  greatly  does  my  wild,  torn,  and  dis- 
tracted mind  stand  in  need  of  such  softening,  healing,  and 
ennobling  influences  ! 


There  is  a  strange  thing  about  the  trade  of  authorship.  One 
man  has  luck  in  the  exercise  of  it,  another  has  none.  My 
friend  Heinrich  Kitzler,  magister  artium  of  Gottingen,  is 
a  most  unfortunate  example.  No  one  there  is  so  learned,  so 
full  of  ideas,  no  one  is  so  industrious  as  my  friend  ;  but  as  yet 
no  book  of  his  has  seen  the  light  at  the  Leipsic  Fair.  Old 
Stiefel  at  the  library  always  smiles  when  Heinrich  Kitzler 
asks  him  for  a  book  which  he  wants  particularly  for  a  work 
which  he  has  on  hand.  "  It  will  stay  on  hand  for  a  good 
while  !  "  growls  old  Stiefel  as  he  climbs  his  stepladder.  The 
cook  maids  smile  when  they  get  a  book  from  the  library  "  for 
Kitzler."  The  man  commonly  passed  for  an  ass,  and  yet  he 
was  at  bottom  an  honest  man.  No  one  knew  the  real  reason 
why  none  of  his  books  were  ever  published  ;  and  I  found  it 
it  out  by  accident,  one  night  when  I  went  into  his  room  to 
get  a  light,  for  we  were  neighbors  as  students.  He  had  just 
finished  a  long  work  on  "  The  Advantages  of  Christianity  " ;  but 
he  seemed  to  take  no  satisfaction  in  it,  and  looked  at  it  sadly. 
"  Now  "  said  I,  "  your  name  will  at  last  appear  in  the  Leipsic 
catalogue  under  the  head  of  Books  just  Published."  "  Ah, 
no,"  he  answered,  with  a  deep  sigh  ;  "  I  shall  have  to  throw 
this  book  into  the  fire  with  the  others,"  and  then  he  confided 
his  sad  secret  to  me.  The  poor  author  always  met  with  a 
fatality  when  he  had  a  book  ready.  The  fact  was  that,  when 
he  had  stated  all  the  grounds  in  favor  of  a  theory  that  he 
wanted  to  establish,  he  felt  bound  to  add  the  arguments  which 
an  adversary  would  advance.  He  considered  the  best  argu- 
ments on  the  opposite  side,  and  as  these  took  root  in  his  mind 
unconsciously  to  himself,  it  always  happened  that  when  he 
had  finished  his  work  the  poor  author's  opinion  had  gradually 
changed,  and  he  had  a  conviction  against  the  truth  of  his 
theory.  Then  he  was  candid  enough  to  sacrifice  the  laurels 
of  fame  on  the  altar  of  truth — that  is,  to  burn  his  book.  This 
was  why  he  sighed  so  deeply  when  he  had  proved  the  advan- 
tages of  Christianity.  "  Here,"  said  he — "  here  I  have  been 
through  twenty  baskets  full  of  the  fathers  of  the  Church  ;  have 
spent  whole  nights  at  my  desk  over  the  '  Acta  Sanctorum,' 
while  you  fellows  in  there  were  drinking  punch  and  singing 


ioo  Gottingen. 

songs  ;  I  have  spent  on  theological  novelties  which  I  needed 
for  my  work  thirty-eight  hard-earned  thalers  at  Vandenhoeck 
&  Ruprecht's,  instead  of  buying  a  new  pipe  bowl  with  the 
money  ;  I  have  worked  like  a  dog  for  two  years — two  pre- 
cious years,  and  all  to  be  laughed  at,  and  cast  down  my  eyes 
like  a  detected  boaster  when  Frau  Churchcounselor  Planck 
asks  me,  '  When  is  your  "  Advantages  of  Christianity  "  coming 
out  ? '  The  book  is  ready,"  said  the  poor  fellow,  "  and  would 
please  the  public  ;  for  I  have  celebrated  the  triumph  of  Chris- 
tianity over  the  heathen,  and  proved  that  it  was  a  victory  of 
truth  and  reason  over  falsehood  and  madness.  But  unhappily 
I  feel  in  my  heart  that " 

"  Stop  ! "  cried  I  with  warmth.  "  Do  not  dare  in  your 
blindness  to  vilify  the  sublime,  and  cast  the  glorious  down 
in  the  dust  !  If  you  deny  the  miracles  of  the  Scriptures 
you  cannot  deny  that  the  triumph  of  the  Scriptures  was  a 
miracle." 

I  spoke  in  a  more  dignified  tone  from  having  drunk  several 
glasses  of  beer  during  the  evening,  and  my  voice  was  louder 
than  usual. 

Heinrich  Kitzler  was  not  to  be  convinced,  and  answered 
with  a  sad,  ironical  smile  :  "  Do  not  get  excited,  my  good 
friend.  What  you  say  I  have  stated  much  better,  and  proved 
in  this  manuscript.  I  have  painted  the  wretched  condition  of 
the  world  in  heathen  times  ;  and  I  flatter  myself  that  my  skill- 
ful touch  rivals  the  fathers  of  the  Church.  It  is  the  best  part 
of  my  work  where  I  relate  in  enthusiastic  words  how  the 
young  Christianity,  like  David,  met  the  old  heathendom  in  the 
lists  and  slew  the  great  Goliath.  But  alas  !  this  duel  now 
appears  to  me  in  a  strange  light.  Oh  !  all  my  love  and  pride 
for  my  apology  died  in  my  breast  when  I  thoroughly  realized 
how  an  opposing  writer  would  paint  the  triumph  of  the  evan- 
gel. I  must  confess  that  a  terrible  pity  filled  my  heart  for 
what  remained  of  heathendom,  those  beautiful  temples  and 
statues  ;  for  they  had  ceased  to  belong  to  the  religion  which 
had  died  long,  long  before  the  birth  of  Christ,  and  belonged  to 
art,  which  is  immortal.  My  eyes  grew  moist  when  I  chanced  to 
read  in  the  library  the  '  Plea  for  the  Temples,'  in  which  the 
old  Greek  Libanius  besought  the  good  barbarians  for  pity's 
sake  to  spare  those  masterpieces  with  which  the  creative  gen- 
ius of  the  Greeks  had  adorned  the  world — but  in  vain  !  No," 
continued  he,  "  I  will  not  in  these  later  times  take  any  part 
in  such  a  sacrilege — by  publishing  this  book — never.  To  you, 


Students'  battles.  101 


poor  overthrown  statues  of  beauty — to  you,  manes  of  the  dead 
gods,  now  mere  phantoms  in  the  shadowy  realms  of  poetry — 
to  you  I  sacrifice  this  book  !  " 

With  these  words  Heinrich  Kitzler  threw  his  manuscript 
into  the  fire  ;  and  nothing  was  left  of  "  The  Advantages  of 
Christianity  "  but  a  heap  of  gray  ashes. 

This  happened  at  Gottingen  in  the  winter  of  1820 — a  few 
days  before  the  fatal  New  Year's  night  on  which  the  beadle 
Doris  was  so  terribly  beaten,  and  eighty-five  duels  were  ar- 
ranged between  the  Burschenschaft  and  the  Landsmannschaft 
clubs.  The  blows  were  fearful,  and  fell  like  rain  on  the  poor 
beadle's  broad  shoulders.  But  he  comforted  himself,  like  a 
good  Christian,  with  the  conviction  that  we  shall  be  consoled 
in  heaven  above  for  the  woes  which  we  undeservedly  suffer 
here  below.  That  was  long  ago.  Old  Doris  has  long  ceased 
to  suffer,  and  sleeps  peacefully  in  his  resting  place  by  the 
Weender  Gate.  The  two  parties  that  once  filled  with  the 
clatter  of  their  swords  the  battle  grounds  of  Bovden,  Ritschen- 
krug,  and  Rasenmiihle,  convinced  of  their  common  insignifi- 
cance, have  long  since  drunk  to  eternal  friendship,  and  time 
has  exerted  its  mighty  influence  on  the  writer  of  these  pages. 
Fewer  bright  pictures  cross  my  brain  now,  and  my  heart  has 
grown  heavy ;  I  weep  now  where  I  once  laughed  ;  and  I 
have  sorrowfully  burned  the  altar-pieces  of  my  former  devo- 
tions. 

There  was  a  time  when  I  devoutedly  kissed  the  hand  of 
every  Capuchin  I  met  in  the  streets.  I  was  a  child,  and  my 
father  let  me  have  my  way,  well  knowing  that  my  lips  would 
not  always  be  content  with  Capuchins'  flesh.  And,  to  be  sure, 
when  I  grew  older  I  kissed  pretty  women.  But  they  often 
looked  at  me  so  sad  and  pale  that  I  shuddered  in  the  arms  of 
pleasure.  Herein  lay  a  mournful  truth  that  no  one  foresaw 
and  all  suffered  from  ;  and  I  used  to  meditate  upon  the  fact. 
I  have  also  meditated  on  the  question  whether  deprivation  or 
enjoyment  of  all  pleasures  on  earth  is  to  be  preferred  ;  and 
whether  those  who  have  been  content  with  thistles  here  below 
are  feasted  with  pineapples  above.  No  ;  he  who  eats  thistles 
is  an  ass ;  and  he  who  gets  a  flogging  must  keep  it.  Poor 
Doris ! 

But  I  cannot  here  speak  in  detail  of  all  the  things  on  which 
I  have  meditated  ;  still  less  can  I  set  down  the  conclusions 
of  my  meditations.  Shall  I,  like  so  many  others,  have  to  go 
down  to  my  grave  with  closed  lips  ? 


ro2  Gottingen. 

GOTTINGEN,  February  4,  1821. 
To  Friedrich  Steinmann : 

Wonder  !  Wonder  !  I  have  been  rusticated  !  By  reason 
of  certain  misunderstandings  I  have  been  in  great  uneasiness 
for  these  three  months,  have  had  all  sorts  of  ill  luck,  and  last 
week  was  sent  off  for  half  a  year,  For  Disobedience  of  the  Law 
concerning  Dueling.  I  am  allowed  to  stay  here  a  few  days 
only,  on  the  pretext  that  I  am  too  ill  to  leave  my  room.  You 
can  imagine  my  vexation  ;  I  sit  all  the  morning  eagerly  expect- 
ing some  tin  from  home,  arranging  papers,  compelled  to  keep 
my  room — and  have  written  in  somebody's  album  : 

"  Peaceful,  dreaming  of  no  harms, 
Lay  the  youth  in  friendship's  arms  ; 
Sudden  as  predestination 
Comes  a  horrid  rustication  ; 
Driven  forth  from  all  he  loves, 
The  youth  unwilling  onward  moves." 

But  whither  shall  I  move  ?  For  certain  reasons  I  will  not 
go  to  Bonn  in  any  case.  I  shall  wait  for  orders  from  home,  to 
what  university  I  must  go.  It  will  probably  be  Berlin. 

I  have  been  working  with  all  my  might  (on  "  Almansor  ") 
sparing  neither  my  heart's  blood  nor  the  sweat  of  my  brain  ; 
have  done  it  all  within  half  an  act,  and  find  to  my  horror 
that  my  marvelous  and  deified  production  is  not  only  not  a 
good  tragedy,  but  quite  unworthy  of  the  name  of  tragedy. 
There  are  enchantingly  beautiful  passages  and  scenes  in  it ; 
it  is  brimful  of  originality  ;  poetical  pictures  and  thoughts 
sparkle  all  through  it,  as  if  you  looked  at  it  through  a  magical 
veil  of  diamonds.  So  says  the  conceited  author,  in  his  enthu- 
siasm for  poetry.  But  the  stern  critic  and  pitiless  playwright 
looks  at  it  through  very  different  spectacles,  shakes  his  head, 
and  calls  it  all  a  pretty  puppet  show.  "  A  tragedy  must  be 
powerful,"  growls  he  ;  and  that  is  a  sentence  of  death  to  mine. 
Have  I  no  dramatic  talent  ?  Very  likely.  Or  have  the 
French  tragedies  which  I  formerly  admired  so  much  uncon- 
sciously influenced  me  ?  That  is  more  probable.  Think  of  it  : 
all  the  unities  are  carefully  observed  in  my  tragedy.  Hardly 
more  than  four  characters  have  anything  to  say  ;  and  the 
dialogue  is  as  carefully  polished  and  rounded  as  in  "  Phedre  " 
or  "  Zaire."  Are  you  surprised  ?  The  riddle  is  an  easy  one. 
I  have  tried,  even  in  a  drama,  to  embody  the  spirit  of  romance 


tA  Tragedy  with  a  'Purpose.  103 

in  a  strong  and  plastic  form.  And  my  tragedy  will  therefore 
have  the  same  fate  as  Schlegel's  "  Ion,"  as  that  was  also 
written  with  a  polemic  purpose. 

Now  I  must  take  a  bite  of  a  sour  apple,  and  tell  you  how  it 
is  with  my  poems.  You  do  me  wrong  if  you  think  the  delay 
in  their  publication  is  my  fault.  I  got  them  back  from  Brock- 
haus  with  the  kindest  and  politest  letter  :  that  he  is  overloaded 
with  matter  for  publication.  I  shall  now  try  and  place  them 
with  someone  else.  The  great  Goethe  had  the  same  experi- 
ence with  his  first  work.  I  shall  print  my  tragedy,  in  spite  of 
its  failings.  Farewell  ! 

I  shall  probably  start  the  day  after  to-morrow. 


CHAPTER    IV. 
Hn 


BERLIN  is  not  a  city  ;  but  Berlin  affords  a  place  where  a 
crowd  of  men  —  and  some  of  them  very  clever  men  —  get 
together,  without  caring  what  the  place  is  ;  these  form  the 
intellectual  Berlin.  The  passing  traveler  only  sees  long  drawn 
out,  uniform  houses,  long,  broad  streets,  laid  out  by  cord  and 
line,  and  generally  after  the  design  of  one  individual,  giving 
no  indication  of  the  ideas  of  the  people.  Few  are  lucky 
enough  to  learn  anything  of  the  individual  notions  of  the 
inhabitants,  when  they  look  at  the  long  rows  of  houses,  trying 
to  keep  apart,  like  men,  and  looking  at  each  other  in  surly  defi- 
ance. On  one  occasion  only,  when  going  home  rather  late  from 
the  restaurant,  did  I  see  this  stern  mood  changed  to  tenderer 
emotions,  so  that  the  houses  that  stand  opposite  to  one  another 
in  an  unfriendly  way  were  tumbling  into  a  more  Christian 
frame  of  mind  and  wanted  to  fall  into  each  other's  arms  ;  and 
poor  I,  walking  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  expected  to  be 
crushed  to  the  earth.  Many  people  will  think  my  fear  laugh- 
able ;  and  I  smiled  at  it  myself  when  I  took  a  sober  look  at 
the  street  the  next  morning,  and  saw  the  houses  glaring  pro- 
saically at  each  other  once  more.  It  needs  several  bottles  of 
poetry  to  make  a  man  see  anything  in  Berlin  but  dead  houses 
and  Berliners.  It  is  hard  to  see  ghosts  there.  The  town  is 
so  new,  with  so  little  of  old  times  about  it  ;  and  yet  this  new 
is  so  old,  worn,  and  shabby.  And,  as  already  said,  it  sprang 
mostly  from  the  notions  of  a  few  men  and  not  from  those  of 
the  people.  The  great  Fritz  is  the  chief  one  of  these  few  ; 
he  found  nothing  but  solid  foundations,  and  the  town  took  a 
character  of  its  own  from  him  ;  and  if  nothing  had  been  built 
since  his  day  the  town  would  be  an  historical  monument  to 
the  spirit  of  the  wonderful  prosaic  hero,  who  with  true  Ger- 
man pluck  cultivated  in  himself  the  refined  want  of  taste  and 
vigorous  freedom  of  thought,  the  shallow  solidity  of  his  time. 
Now  Potsdam  is  just  such  a  memorial.  We  wander  through 
its  empty  streets  as  we  wander  through  the  writings  which  the 
philosopher  of  Sans  Souci  has  left  to  us  ;  it  belongs  among  his 


Verses.  105 

auvres  posthumes ;  and  though  it  is  only  so  much  stony  waste 
paper,  and  furnishes  themes  enough  for  laughter,  we  regard  it 
with  real  interest,  and  now  and  then  check  a  desire  to  laugh, 
as  if  we  were  afraid  of  getting  a  sudden  whack  over  the  shoul- 
ders from  old  Fritz's  India  joint. 


As  I  tarried  for  many  and  many  a  day 

And  wandered  afar  in  a  dreamy  way, 

My  love,  tired  out,  took  needle  and  thread, 

And  sewed  a  fine  dress,  in  which  to  be  wed  ; 

And  with  arms  round  his  neck,  declared  she  would  wive 

With  the  silliest  youth  of  the  youths  alive. 

My  lady  love  is  so  fair  and  sweet, 

Wherever  I  turn,  in  fancy  I  meet 

Her  violet  eyes  and  her  cheeks  that  glow 

Like  red,  red  roses,  the  whole  year  through. 

That  I  from  a  love  like  hers  could  run, 

Is  the  silliest  thing  of  the  things  I  have  done. 


Oh,  lily  of  my  love, 
That  dreamest  by  the  stream, 
And  lookest  in  so  sadly, 
Whispering,  "  Woe  is  me." 

"  Get  thee  gone  with  thy  chatter, 
False  man,  I  know  full  well 
That  the  Rose,  my  cousin, 
Thy  false  heart  has  won." 


Why  do  my  crazy  pulses  bound  ? 
Why  does  my  heart  so  fiercely  glow? 
My  hot  blood  boils  and  foams  and  seethes 
And  a  fiery  glow  consumes  my  heart. 

My  blood  is  mad,  and  seethes  and  foams, 
With  a  bad  dream  that  I  have  dreamed ; 
The  dusky  Son  of  Night  appeared, 
And  dragged  me  faint  and  panting  on. 


io6  In  ^Berlin. 

He  bore  me  to  a  lighted  house, 
Mid  harps  and  feast  and  revelry  ; 
And  torches  flamed  and  candles  blazed  ; 
I  reached  the  hall ;  I  stepped  within. 

It  was  a  merry  marriage  feast ; 

The  guests  were  seated  round  the  board  ; 

I  looked  upon  the  bridal  pair — 

Alas  !  my  darling  was  the  bride. 

My  darling — yes,  'twas  she  indeed  ; 
The  bridegroom  was  of  stranger  race  ; 
And  close  behind  her  bridal  chair 
I  took  my  stand,  but  spoke  no  word, 

The  music  swelled  ;  I  never  moved  ; 
The  joyous  sounds  oppressed  my  heart ; 
The  bride  looked  on  with  happy  eye  ; 
The  bridegroom  seemed  to  press  her  hand. 

The  bridegroom  filled  the  goblet  high 
And  drank  it  off ;  then  to  the  bride 
He  held  the  cup  ;  she  smiled  her  thanks — 
Ah  !  'twas  my  red  blood  that  she  drank. 

The  bride  took  up  an  apple  fair, 
And  to  the  bridegroom  held  it  forth  ; 
He  took  a  knife  and  cut  it  deep — 
Ah  !  in  my  heart  he  plunged  his  knife. 

Long  and  loving  looks  they  cast ; 
The  bridegroom  took  her  in  his  arms, 
And  kissed  her  on  the  glowing  cheek — 
Ah  !  I  felt  Death's  chilling  kiss. 

A  leaden  weight  was  on  my  tongue, 
And  not  a  word  my  lips  could  breathe; 
Then  up  they  rose  ;  the  dance  began  ; 
The  joyous  pair  danced  side  by  side. 

I  stood  as  silent  as  the  grave  ; 
The  dancing  crowd  went  whirling  by  ; 
The  bridegroom  whispering  in  her  ear  ; 
The  bride  grew  red,  but  chided  not. 


On   His   Cousin's  {Marriage.  107 

JENNY. 
[Heine's  cousin  Araalie  was  married  in  1821.] 

In  eighteen-hundred-seventeen, 

I  saw  a  maiden  wondrous  fair, 
So  like  to  thee  in  face  and  mien — 

And  just  like  thee  she  wore  her  hair. 

"  Off  to  college  I  must  go," 

I  said,  "  Long  it  will  not  be 
'Ere  I  return.     You'll  wait,  I  know." 

"  You  are  my  only  love,"  said  she. 

Three  years  had  I  the  Pandects  read — 

In  Gottingen,  at  fair  May-tide, 
One  morning  someone  careless  said, 

My  darling  was  another's  bride. 

It  was  May-day,  and  early  spring 

Was  laughing  over  dale  and  height ; 
The  birds  were  singing,  and  each  thing 

Was  merry  in  the  sun's  warm  light. 

My  wounded  heart  beat  faint  andslow, 

My  limbs  were  weak,  my  cheek  was  white — 

The  blessed  God  alone  can  know 
All  that  I  suffered  in  that  night. 


I  lived  for  three  and  a  half  years  in  Berlin,  where  I  was  on 
the  friendliest  terms  with  men  of  remarkable  learning ;  and  I 
was  sent  home  on  account  of  a  sword  wound  in  the  thigh, 
given  me  by  one  Schaller,  of  Dantzig.  I  shall  never  forget 
his  name  ;  for  he  is  the  only  man  who  ever  succeeded  in 
deeply  wounding  me. 

I  have  written  verses  from  my  sixteenth  year.  My  first 
poems  were  printed  at  Berlin,  in  1821.  Through  the  influence 
of  Professor  Gubitz,  the  firm  of  Mauer  consented  to  publish 
them  ;  and,  except  twenty  copies  of  the  work,  I  did  not 
receive  one  penny. 


io8  In  Tier  tin. 

BERLIN,  agth  December,  1821. 


To  Goethe: 

Though  I  have  a  hundred  good  reasons  for  sending  ray 
poems  to  your  Excellency,  I  will  mention  but  one  ;  I  love  you. 
I  think  that  is  a  sufficient  reason.  My  poesies,  I  know,  have 
little  value  ;  but  there  may  be  things  here  and  there  to  show 
what  I  may  do  hereafter.  I  have  long  doubted  as  to  the 
nature  of  poetry.  People  said,  "  Ask  Schlegel";  and  he  said, 
"  Read  Goethe."  I  have  faithfully  done  so  ;  and  if  there  is 
anything  good  in  me,  I  know  to  whom  I  owe  it.  I  kiss  the 
sacred  hand  which  has  shown  me  and  the  whole  German 
nation  the  road  to  heaven. 


BERLIN,  December  30,  1821. 
To  Adolf  Milliner  : 

If  I  have  turned  poet,  your  Excellency's  "  Guilt  "  is  guilty 
of  it.  It  was  my  favorite  book,  and  I  was  so  fond  of  it,  that 
I  gave  it  as  a  keepsake  to  my  love.  "  Write  something  like 
it  yourself,"  said  my  love,  in  a  mocking  tone.  Of  course  I 
vowed  and  swore  to  write  something  better. 

But  your  Excellency  may  believe  me  on  my  word  that,  up 
to  this  moment,  I  have  not  succeeded  in  keeping  my  promise. 
I  have  no  doubt,  however,  that  in  a  few  years  I  shall  push  the 
autocrat  of  the  drama  from  his  throne.  "  Take  you  no  fear 

from 's  or  's  bloody  heads,  in  warning  on  the  critic's 

page  impaled?     Nor  from  the  fate  of  thousands  who  in  such 
rash  adventure  met  disgrace  ?"*     No,  I  am  not  afraid. 

When  anything  great  is  built,  some  chips  must  be  made  ; 
and  these  are  what  I  am  bold  enough  to  send  your  Excellency 
to-day.  I  do  not  do  it  on  account  of  the  respect  I  have  for 
your  Excellency,  I  take  good  care  not  to  manifest  that  to 
anyone  ;  nor  on  account  of  the  delightful  evenings  I  owe  to 
your  Excellency — for,  in  the  first  place,  I  am  ungrateful  by 
nature,  being  a  man  ;  and  in  the  second  place,  I  am  ungrateful 
to  poets  from  habit,  being  a  German  ;  and  in  the  third  place, 
there  can  be  no  talk  of  gratitude  to  your  Excellency  on  my 
part,  as  I  now  consider  myself  a  poet. 

*  Take  you  no  fear 

From  Babington's  or  Tichburn's  bloody  heads, 
In  warning  upon  London  Bridge  impaled  ? 
Nor  from  the  fate  of  the  unnumbered  crowd, 
Who  in  such  rash  adventure  met  their  death  ? 

— SCHILLER'S  Mary  Stuart. 


Fragments.  109 

I  send  your  Excellency  the  accompanying  volume  of  poems 
only  because  I  should  like  to  see  a  review  of  them  in  the 
literary  journals. 

I  shall  win  a  considerable  sum  if  the  review  is  a  good 
one — /'.  e.,  not  too  bitter.  For  I  have  made  a  bet  in  a  literary 
club  here  that  Councilor  Milliner  will  review  me  impartially, 
even  when  I  tell  him  that  I  am  of  the  party  opposed  to  him. 


To-day  I  am  out  of  humor,  cross,  angry,  furious  ;  my  ill 
temper  has  put  the  drag  on  my  fancy,  and  my  wits  are  in 
mourning.  Do  not  think  it  is  a  case  of  woman's  falseness. 
I  still  love  women  ;  as  I  was  cut  off  from  all  female  society  at 
Gottingen,  I  got  a  cat  ;  but  a  woman's  treachery  would  now 
affect  only  my  risible  muscles.  Do  not  think  something  has 
wounded  my  vanity  ;  the  time  is  passed  when  I  used  to  put 
my  hair  in  curl  papers  at  night,  carried  a  mirror  in  my  pocket, 
and  spent  twenty-five  hours  of  each  day  over  the  knot  of  my 
cravat.  And  do  not  think  that  any  religious  doubts  have  dis- 
turbed my  gentle  soul  ;  I  believe  in  nothing  now  except  the 
doctrine  of  Pythagoras  and  the  royal  Prussian  laws.  No,  my 
ill  humor  has  a  much  more  reasonable  cause.  My  esteemed 
friend,  the  worthiest  of  mortals,  Count  von  Breza,  went  away 
day  before  yesterday.  He  was  the  only  man  of  whose  society 
I  never  wearied  ;  the  only  one  whose  originality  and  wit  could 
make  me  really  enjoy  life  ;  and  in  whose  sweet,  noble  features 
I  could  see  how  my  own  soul  looked  in  the  days  when  my  life 
was  as  pure  as  a  flower,  before  I  had  defiled  it  with  hate 
and  lies  ! 


For  several  months  I  have  been  exploring  Prussian  Poland 
in  all  directions  ;  into  the  Russian  part  I  did  not  go  far,  and 
not  at  all  into  the  Austrian.  I  have  learned  a  great  deal  from 
people  from  all  parts  of  Poland.  They  were,  to  be  sure,  for 
the  most  part  people  of  rank,  and  of  the  highest.  But  while 
my  body  was  in  the  first  circles  of  society,  in  the  castles  of 
Polish  nobles,  my  spirit  often  strayed  away  to  the  huts  of  the 
humbler  classes. 


Whenever  I  stood  before  Delaroche's  picture  of  the  "  Two 
Princes  in  the  Tower,"  murdered  by  Richard   III.,  I  always 


no  In  Tier  tin. 

remembered  how,  in  a  beautiful  castle  in  dear  Poland,  I  once 
stood  before  a  portrait  of  my  friend,  while  his  sweet  sister 
talked  of  him,  with  eyes  that  were  like  my  friend's.  We  spoke 
of  the  artist  too,  who  had  died  a  little  before — and  how  one 
friend  after  another  dies — alas  !  my  friend  himself  is  now 
dead.  The  sweet  light  in  his  sister's  eyes  is  quenched  also  ; 
their  castle  is  burned.  I  feel  lonely  and  sad  at  the  thought 
that  not  only  do  our  loved  ones  pass  so  soon  from  earth,  but 
there  remains  not  even  a  trace  of  the  stage  where  we  played 
our  part  with  them — as  if  it  had  never  been,  and  all  were  but 
a  dream. 

How  angry  I  was  once  when  my  best  friend ,  as  we 

were  walking  on  the  terrace  of  a  castle,  tried  to  prove  to  me 
the  superior  blood  of  the  nobility  !  While  we  were  disputing, 
his  servant  made  some  little  mistake  ;  whereupon  the  highborn 
lord  struck  the  lowborn  servant  in  the  face,  so  that  the  ple- 
beian blood  gushed  forth,  and  then  threw  him  from  the  terrace. 
I  was  ten  years  younger  then  ;  and  in  my  turn  threw  the 
noble  count  from  the  terrace — he  was  my  dearest  friend — and 
he  broke  a  leg  in  his  fall.  When  I  saw  him  after  his  recovery, 
he  still  limped  a  little.  But  he  was  by  no  means  cured  of  his 
pride  of  race  ;  but  eagerly  maintained  that  the  nobility  stood 
as  mediators  between  king  and  people,  in  the  same  way  that 
God  has  set  the  angels  between  himself  and  mankind — a  sort 
of  heavenly  nobility.  "  My  sweet  angel,"  said  I,  "  walk  a 
step  or  two."  He  did  ;  and  the  comparison  somewhat  halted. 


BERLIN,  January  21,  1823. 
To  Christian  Sethe  : 

I  send  you  by  the  first  post  my  essay  on  Poland,  which  1 
wrote  for  Breza,  and  in  the  water  at  the  douche  baths  ;  and 
which  Herr  Gubitz  corrected  with  wouldbe  witticisms,  and 
the  censors  have  roundly  slashed.  This  essay  has  made  the 
barons  and  counts  detest  me  ;  and  I  am  well  abused  in  high 
quarters. 

BERLIN,  April  i,  1823. 
To  Imanuel  Wohlwill : 

It  is  noble  in  you  to  be  pleased  with  my  essay  on  Poland. 
My  accurate  observations  in  Poland  have  called  forth  much 
praise,  in  which  I  cannot  join.  I  was  last  winter,  and  am  still, 


Hegel.  in 

in  too  poor  health  to  do  anything  good.      This  essay  has 
stirred  up  all  the  Grand  Duchy  of  Poland. 

BERLIN,  May  4,  1823. 

To  Maximilian  Schottky : 

I  read  with  smiling  indifference  the  silly  letter  published  in 
the  Gesellschafter  against  my  essay  on  Poland.  I  heard 
there  was  some  abuse  worthy  of  a  fishwife  in  the  Posen  papers, 
and  have  to-day  contrived  to  procure  them.  As  you  may  sup- 
pose,  they  made  me  shrug  my  shoulders. 


I  could  easily  have  prophesied  what  songs  would  one  day 
be  piped  and  twittered  in  Germany,  for  I  saw  the  birds  hatched 
which  afterward  sang  the  new  melodies.  I  saw  how  Hegel, 
with  his  almost  comically  earnest  face,  sat  on  the  fatal  eggs 
like  a  brood  hen,  and  heard  him  cackle.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  sel- 
dom understood  him,  and  only  contrived  to  comprehend  him 
by  subsequent  reflection.  I  believe  he  did  not  mean  to  be 
understood,  which  accounts  for  his  parenthetical  style,  and 
perhaps  for  his  predilection  for  people  by  whom  he  knew  he 
was  not  understood  and  whom  he  therefore  honored  the  more 
willingly  with  his  intimacy.  Everyone  in  Berlin  wondered  at 
the  close  relations  between  the  thoughtful  Hegel  and  the  late 
Heinrich  Beer,  the  brother  of  a  man  widely  known  to  fame 
and  whose  praises  are  in  every  newspaper,  Giacomo  Meyer- 
beer. This  Beer — that  is,  Heinrich — was  a  very  foolish  fellow, 
and  was  afterward  declared  by  his  family  to  be  imbecile,  and 
put  under  guardianship,  because  instead  of  employing  his 
ample  means  in  making  for  himself  a  name  in  art  or  science, 
he  wasted  his  money  on  absurd  trifles — one  day,  for  example, 
buying  six  thousand  thalers  worth  of  walking  sticks.  The  poor 
man  who  preferred  walking  sticks  to  the  fame  of  a  great  tragic 
poet  or  star-gazer,  or  the  laurel  crown  of  a  rival  of  Mozart 
and  Rossini — this  degenerate  Beer  enjoyed  the  closest  acquaint- 
ance with  Hegel,  was  the  philosopher's  most  intimate  friend, 
his  Pylades,  and  followed  him  like  his  shadow.  The  witty 
and  talented  Felix  Mendelssohn  once  tried  to  explain  the 
phenomenon  by  declaring  that  Hegel  did  not  understand 
Heinrich  Beer.  Now  I  believe  that  the  true  explanation  of 
the  intimacy  was,  that  Hegel  was  persuaded  that  Beer  under- 
stood nothing  he  heard  him  say,  and  so  could  give  vent  to  all 


ii2  In  TZerlin. 

sorts  of  fanciful  ideas  in  his  presence.  Hegel's  talk,  moreover, 
was  a  sort  of  monologue,  delivered  by  jerks  in  a  monotonous 
voice  ;  and  the  strangeness  of  his  expressions  often  struck  me, 
and  many  remain  in  my  memory.  One  fine  starlight  night 
we  two  were  standing  by  the  window  ;  and  I,  a  youngster  of 
twenty,  had  eaten  a  good  dinner  and  drunk  my  coffee  ,  so  I 
began  to  rhapsodize  about  the  stars,  calling  them  the  abodes  of 
the  blessed.  The  master  growled  out :  "  The  stars — hum  ! 
hum  !  they  are  nothing  but  a  fiery  leprosy  of  the  sky."  "  In 
God's  name  "  cried  I,  "  is  there  no  place  on  high  where  virtue 
meets  its  reward  after  death  ?  "  He  looked  askant  at  me 
with  his  white  eyes,  and  asked  sharply  :  "  Do  you  expect  to 
get  a  tip  for  taking  care  of  your  sick  mother,  and  not  pois- 
oning your  brother  ?  " — and  then  looked  uneasily  round,  and 
seemed  relieved  to  find  that  no  one  was  near,  except  Beer, 
who  had  come  to  ask  him  to  take  a  hand  at  whist. 


I  have  been  abused  on  all  hands  for  having  torn  the  veil 
from  the  German  heaven,  and  shown  to  everyone  that  all  the 
deities  of  the  old  faith  are  gone,  and  no  one  now  remains  but 
an  old  maid  with  leaden  hands  and  a  sad  heart — Necessity. 
Alas  !  I  only  announced  a  little  sooner  what  all  must  have 
learned  for  themselves  ;  and  what  then  sounded  so  strange  is 
now  proclaimed  upon  all  the  house  tops  beyond  the  Rhine. 
And  with  what  fanatic  tones  were  all  anti-religious  sermons 
delivered  !  We  have  some  atheistic  monks,  who  would  like 
to  burn  M.  de  Voltaire,  as  he  is  a  strong  deist.  I  confess  such 
music  does  not  please  me  ;  but  it  does  not  frighten  me — for 
I  stood  behind  the  maestro  while  he  was  composing  it,  in  very 
obscure  and  flourishy  notes,  so  that  everyone  might  not 
make  it  out.  I  often  saw  him  look  round  anxiously,  for  fear 
he  should  be  understood.  He  was  fond  of  me,  for  he  was 
sure  I  would  not  betray  him  ;  but  I  thought  him  a  mean-spirited 
fellow.  Once  when  I  was  provoked  by  the  words,  "  All  that 
exists  is  reasonable,"  he  gave  a  peculiar  smile  and  observed, 
"  We  might  put  it  thus,'  All  that  is  reasonable  must  be.'  "  Then 
he  looked  hastily  round  ;  but  was  reassured,  as  no  one  but 
Heinrich  Beer  had  heard  him.  I  learned  later  to  under- 
stand this  way  of  talking.  And  it  was  not  until  late,  also, 
that  I  understood  why,  in  his  "  Philosophy  of  History,"  he  had 
asserted  that  Christianity  was  a  step  forward,  as  it  taught  a 
God  who  died,  while  the  heathen  gods  knew  nothing  of  death. 


Letters.  113 

BERLIN,  December  24,  1822. 
To  Karl  Immermann : 

You  should  have  had  a  letter  from  me  long  ago.  When  I 
read  the  kind  and  conciliatory  words  which  you  wrote  in  the 
Anzeiger  last  summer  about  my  poems  I  resolved  to  write 
to  you.  .  .  I  confess  that  you  are  the  only  one  who  has 
divined  the  springs  of  my  bitter  woe.  I  hope,  however,  soon 
to  be  thoroughly  known  to  you ;  and  in  my  next  volume  of 
poems  I  may  give  the  pass-key  to  the  mental  infirmary  in 
which  I  lie.  I  shall  soon  send  the  little  book  to  the  press,  and 
it  will  be  one  of  the  greatest  joys  of  my  heart  to  offer  it  to 
you  ;  truly  there  are  few  for  whom  a  man  writes,  above  all, 
when  he  shrinks  so  much  into  himself  as  I  do.  The  book 
will  comprise  my  sportively  sentimental  songs,  a  picturesque 
Southern  romantic  drama,  and  a  very  short  and  sad  Northern 
tragedy.  Fools  declare  that  we  must  be  rivals,  through  our 
Westphalian  point  of  contact — you  having  hitherto  been 
called  a  Westphalian — and  do  not  see  that  a  bright,  sparkling 
diamond  is  not  to  be  compared  to  a  black  stone,  of  a  whimsical 
shape,  from  which  the  hammer  of  time  beats  wild  and  angry 
sparks.  But  what  do  we  care  for  fools  ? .  .  .  War  upon  the 
old  Wrong,  upon  upstart  Folly  and  all  the  wicked  !  If  you 
will  accept  me  as  your  companion  in  arms  in  this  holy  war,  I 
hold  out  the  hand  of  friendship  to  you.  Poetry  is  after  all  a 
secondary  affair. 

BERLIN,  January  14,  1823. 
To  Karl  Immermann : 

I  hope  that  in  your  want  of  a  publisher  the  Counselor  of 
Legation  Varnhagen  von  Ense  will  be  of  service  to  you.  He 
is  a  man  whose  position,  character,  judgment,  and  loyalty  are 
worthy  of  perfect  trust,  and  whose  favor  I  enjoy,  thanks  to 
the  sweet  offices  of  poetry.  He  is  the  one  man  in  this  false 
nest  on  whom  I  rely  ;  and  his  interest  in  your  works  is  the 
best  and  truest  service  I  could  render  you.  I  showed  him 
your  letter  to  me  ;  and  to  please  you  I  send  you  the  letter 
which  his  wife  wrote  me  about  it.  .  .  Moreover,  she  is  the 
most  intelligent  woman  I  know.  .  .  I  read  your  last  words 
about  my  poetizing  with  pleasure  ;  and  the  frankness  of  your 
nature  persuades  me  that  you  wish  me  well.  .  .  I  am  as 
pleased  as  a  child  at  the  prospect  of  my  book's  appearance, 
just  because  so  many  wretched  creatures  attack  me.  .  .  I 
have  resolved  to  ignore  all  that  is  and  may  be  said  in  abuse  of 


ii4  In  Tier  tin. 

me  ;  for  I  know  that  there  is  a  regularly  organized  clique, 
which  hopes  to  make  me  take  up  arms  by  spreading  vile 
reports  and  flinging  mud.  Farewell.  Think  of  me  kindly.  If 
from  some  of  my  expressions  and  complaints  you  should  set 
me  down  as  a  trifling  sort  of  fellow,  I  will  own  that  I  am  so. 
This  may  spring  from  my  state  of  health,  or  because  I  am 
still  half  a  child.  It  is  a  notion  of  mine  to  remain  a  child  as 
long  as  I  can,  for  childhood  takes  the  reflections  of  every- 
thing— manhood,  old  age,  divinity,  profligacy,  and  propriety. 

BERLIN,  January  21,  1823. 
To  Christian  Sethe  : 

You  have  gone.  That  is  the  text ;  all  the  rest  is  a  gloss. 
Ill,  alone,  persecuted,  and  incapable  of  enjoying  life — that  is 
my  life  here. 

I  am  writing  hardly  anything,  and  taking  douches.  I  have 
scarcely  a  friend  here.  A  pack  of  knaves  are  trying  their 
best  to  ruin  me,  conspiring  with  those  who  once  called  them- 
selves my  friends,  etc.  My  dramas  will  certainly  be  out  in 
from  six  to  eight  weeks. 

BERLIN,  April  i,  1823. 
To  Imanuel  Wohlwill : 

Do  not  think,  my  dear  friend,  that  the  long  delay  in 
answering  your  kind  letter  is  owing  to  any  cooling  off  in  my 
friendship.  No  ;  although  many  friendships  froze  in  this 
cold  winter,  your  dear,  great  picture  has  not  passed  the  nar- 
row portals  of  my  heart ;  and  the  name  of  Wohlwill  is  living 
and  warm  in  my  memory.  Only  yesterday  we  talked  of  you 
for  an  hour  and  a  half.  By  we  you  must  always  understand 
I  and  Moser.  .  . 

I  am  delighted  you  begin  to  enjoy  yourself  in  the  arms  of 
the  amiable  Hammonia  ;  but  I  do  not  like  that  fair  one.  Her 
gold-embroidered  dress  cannot  cheat  me  ;  I  know  she  wears  a 
dirty  shift  on  her  yellow  body  ;  and  with  a  melting  sigh  of, 
"  Beef  !  Banco  !  "  she  sinks  on  the  breast  of  the  highest  bidder. 
But  perhaps  I  am  unjust  to  the  good  town  of  Hamburg.  The 
mood  in  which  I  was  while  I  lived  there  was  not  calculated  to 
make  me  an  unprejudiced  observer.  My  inner  life  passed  in 
brooding  over  the  depths  of  the  world  of  dreams,  whose  dark- 
ness was  illuminated  only  by  an  occasional  fantastic  gleam— 
my  outward  life  was  wild,  dissolute,  cynical,  hateful — as  great 
a  contrast,  in  short,  as  I  could  make  it  to  my  inner  life,  les! 


Letters.  115 

:his  might  quite  crush  me.  Yes,  amice,  it  was  a  great  piece 
i)f  luck  for  me  ;  coming  fresh  from  the  philosophical  lecture 
room  into  the  world's  arena,  I  could  order  my  life  philosoph- 
ically, and  look  on  objectively — even  if  I  lacked  the  perfect 
:alm  and  self-possession  needed  to  take  a  clear  view  of  the 
great  stage  of  the  world.  I  do  not  know  whether  you  under- 
stand me  ;  but  when  you  read  my  memoirs,  and  see  the  picture 
of  a  crowd  of  Hamburg  people,  of  whom  I  love  some,  hate 
more,  and  despise  most,  you  will  understand  me  better. 
What  I  have  said  will  serve  as  an  answer  to  some  passages  in 
your  kind  letter,  and  show  you  why  I  cannot  comply  with  your 
wish  by  coming  to  Hamburg — though  I  shall  be  within  a  few 
miles  of  it.  For  in  four  weeks  I  am  going  to  Liineburg,  where 
my  family  is  living,  shall  stay  there  six  weeks,  and  then  go  to 
the  Rhine  and,  if  possible,  to  Paris.  My  uncle  has  furnished 
enough  for  two  more  years  of  study  ;  and  I  shall  not  need  to 
carry  out  my  plan  of  trying  for  a  professorship  in  Sarmatia. 
I  think  that  things  will  soon  be  greatly  changed,  and  that  I 
shall  have  no  difficulty  in  establishing  myself  on  the  Rhine. 
.  .  .  The  great  thing  is  the  restoration  of  my  health,  without 
which  all  plans  are  folly.  If  God  will  give  me  good  health  I 
will  look  out  for  the  rest  myself. 

BERLIN,  April  12,  1823. 
To  Rahel  Varnhagen  von  Ense  : 

I  shall  soon  set  off,  and  I  beg  you  not  to  toss  my  picture 
into  the  lumber  room  of  forgotten  things.  I  certainly  could 
not  retaliate  ;  if  I  said  to  myself  a  hundred  times  a  day,  "  You 
must  forget  Frau  von  Varnhagen  ! "  it  would  be  of  no  use. 
Do  not  forget  me  !  You  cannot  plead  a  bad  memory  as  an 
excuse  ;  your  mind  has  made  a  contract  with  time  ;  and  if,  in 
some  hundreds  of  years,  I  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
again,  as  the  fairest  and  noblest  flower  in  the  fairest  and 
noblest  of  heavenly  vales,  greet  me — poor  bush  of  holly  (or 
shall  I  be  something  still  more  humble  ?) — with  a  friendly 
glance,  as  an  old  acquaintance.  I  am  sure  you  will.  Did 
jyou  not  do  as  much  in  1822  and  1823,  when  you  showed  to 
me,  a  sick,  bitter,  cross,  poetical,  and  unbearable  creature, 
a  sweetness  and  goodness  which  I  certainly  had  never  de- 
served in  this  life — and  must  have  owed  to  some  kind 
remembrance  of  an  earlier  acquaintance. 


CHAPTER    V. 
"  Grage&ies "  anD  tbe  "Xgric  ITnterlufce." 

BERLIN,  April  7,  1823. 
TV  Imanuel  Wohlw ill : 

To-day  I  send  you  my  Tragedies.  I  have  dedicated  then 
to  my  uncle  Salomon  Heine.  Have  you  seen  him  ?  He  i; 
one  of  the  men  for  whom  I  have  the  most  respect ;  he  is  ai 
honorable  man,  and  has  great  strength  of  character.  This 
you  know,  is  the  great  thing  with  me. 

BERLIN,  April  10,  1823. 
To  Friederich  Steinmann  : 

Storms  of  anger,  the  loss  of  what  was  dearest  to  me,  illnes; 
bad  humor,  and  such  like  pleasant  things  have  for  two  year! 
been  the  prominent  events  in  your  friend's  life.  .  .  M 
tragedies  are  just  out  of  the  press.  I  know  they  will  be  sadlj 
torn  to  pieces.  But  I  will  tell  you  in  confidence — they  ar 
very  good  ;  better  than  my  volume  of  poems,  which  is  nc 
worth  powder  and  shot. 

BERLIN,  April  10,  1823. 
To  Karl  Immermann  : 

Yes  ;  I  promise  that  the  small  feeling  of  looking  small  sha 
never  again  influence  me  when  I  have  a  confession  to  make  1 
you.  There  is  just  such  a  full  confession  in"  Ratcliff ";  an 
I  have  a  notion  that  you  are  of  the  small  number  of  men  wr; 
will  understand  it.  I  am  convinced  of  the  truth  of  that  poer 
for  it  is  true,  or  I  am  all  a  lie  ;  all  the  rest  that  I  have  writtt 
and  am  writing  may  and  will  perish.  Will  the  newborn  chi 
give  me  pleasure  ?  Hardly  so  much  as  the  pain  I  already  for 
see.  The  clique  of  toads  and  vermin  here  have  already  giv< 
me  a  proof  of  their  attention.  They  have  found  some  way 
getting  my  book  before  it  is  out  of  the  press  ;  and,  as  I  he<| 
tendencies  are  imputed  to  "Almansor,"  and  reports  spre. 
about  it,  which  stir  up  all  my  being,  and  fill  me  with  utter  d: 
gust.  .  .  The  cursed  figurative  style  in  which  I  have  to 

»6 


The  Folk- Form  of  the  "  Interlude."  \  17 

Umansor  and  his  Eastern  companions  talk  has  led  me  far. 
lesides  this,  I  am  afraid  the  good  in  the  land  will  find  much  to 
buse.  .  . 

HAMBURG,  June  7,  1823. 
ft  Wilhelm  Miiller : 

,  I  am  great  enough  to  say  frankly  to  you  that  the  meter  of 
ly  little  "  Interlude  "  has  not  a  merely  accidental  resemblance 
'ith  your  usual  meter,  but  really  owes  its  innermost  cadences 
o  your  songs,  which  I  met  with  just  while  I  was  writing  the 
Interlude."  The  German  folk-songs  had  a  powerful  influence 
n  me  from  my  early  years  ;  later,  while  I  was  a  student  at 
lonn,  August  Schlegel  revealed  many  of  the  secrets  of  melody 
3  me ;  but  it  was  in  your  songs  that  I  first  found  the  clear 
ing  and  true  simplicity  at  which  I  always  aim.  Your  songs 
re  so  clear,  so  pure,  and  they  are  all  real  folk-songs.  My 
oems  have  something  of  the  folk-form,  but  their  subjects  are 
aken  from  conventional  society.  Yes,  I  am  great  enough  to 
epeat  it  distinctly,  and  you  will  find  it  openly  stated,  that  the 
'erusal  of  your  seventy-seven  poems  first  showed  me  how  it 
'as  possible  to  add  new  forms  to  those  of  our  national  folk- 
ongs  without  necessarily  imitating  their  rudeness  and  clumsi- 
ess.  I  think  the  forms  are  even  purer  and  clearer  in  your 
econd  volume.  But  why  should  I  say  so  much  of  form  ?  Let 
ie  rather  tell  you  that,  with  the  exception  of  Goethe,  there  is 
o  song  writer  that  I  like  as  well  as  you. 

LUNEBURG,  May,  1823. 
To  Moses  Moser  : 

With  regard  to  the  reception  of  my  Tragedies,  I  find  all  my 
(ears  confirmed.  Success  must  wipe  out  the  bad  impression. 
^8  to  their  reception  by  my  family, — my  mother  has  read  the 
'ragedies  and  songs  and  does  not  particularly  care  for  them, 
ny  sister  barely  tolerates  them,  my  brother  does  not  under- 
tand  them,  and  my  father  has  not  read  them. 

LUNEBURG,  June  26,  1823. 
To  Josef  Lehmann  : 

I  have  not  given  up  hopes  of  seeing  "Ratcliff"  brought 
>ut,  although  I  have  cajoled  no  actors  and  feted  no  actresses, 
nd,  moreover,  do  not  understand  the  art  of  painfully  smug- 
gling a  piece  onto  the  boards.  I  believe  the  writing  and  talk- 
iig  about  the  thing  will  bring  it  onto  the  stage. 


1 1 8       The  "Tragedies  ' '  and  the  "Lyric  Interlude. ' ' 

LUNEBURG,  September  30,  1823. 
To  Moses  Moser: 

I  saw  in  the  Elegant  World  lately  that  Kochy  is  living 
in  Brunswick,  and  in  the  same  paper  I  read  an  article  on  the 
Brunswick  Theater,  in  which  I  recognize  this  man's  pen.  I  am 
persuaded  the  fellow  led  or,  at  least,  contrived  the  hissing  off 
of  my  "  Almansor."  *  I  know  how  such  things  are  managed  ; 
I  know  the  vile  nature  of  men,  and  you  can  now  see  the  impor- 
tance of  the  few  measures  I  had  to  take  on  the  appearance  of 
my  "Almansor."  I  hear  that  it  was  stamped  down.  Have  you 
received  any  private  information  ?  Jews  that  were  at  the 
Brunswick  Fair  have  spread  the  news  throughout  all  Israel, 
and  I  am  duly  condoled  with  in  Hamburg.  It  is  a  fatal  busi- 
ness for  me,  and  has  a  bad  influence  on  my  position  ;  and  I  do 
not  know  how  to  mend  it.  The  world  and  the  boobies  in  it 
are  not  as  indifferent  to  me  as  you  think. 


TO    RUDOLF    CHRISTIANI. 

With  a  strong  hand  I  drew  back  from  the  door 
Of  the  dark  spirit-realm  the  rusty  bolts  ; 
From  the  red  book  of  love  I  tore  away 
The  primal  secrets  of  its  seven  seals ; 
That  which  I  found  in  the  immortal  lines 
I  show  thee  here,  within  this  glass  of  song. 
I  and  my  name  must  unremembered  lie — 
Not  so  this  song,  for  that  shall  never  die ! 

TO    FRIEDERICH    MERCKEL. 

/ 

I  sought  in  vain  for  gentle  love, 

The  bitterest  hate  alone  I  found. 
Full  deep  I  sighed,  full  loud  I  cursed, 

While  bleeding  fast  from  many  a  wound. 

Many  a  day  and  night  have  I 

Roamed  with  blackguards  through  the  town  ; 
The  fruits  of  all  these  studies  here 

You  see  in  "  Ratcliff  "  written  down. 

*  This  was  a   mistake.     Kdchy  was  influential  in  getting  "  Almansor ' 
produced. 


William  ^I^atcliff.  "  119 


"  William  Ratcliff  "  was  but  little  known  ;  to  be  sure  the 
publisher's  name  was  Diimmler.*  I  give  a  place  to  this 
tragedy  or  dramatic  balla'd  among  my  poems  for  the  good 
reason  that  it  is  an  important  document  in  the  story  of 
my  poetical  life.  For  it  is  a  summary  of  my  "  storm  and 
stress"  period,  which  is  but  incompletely  and  darkly  seen 
in  the  "  Youthful  Sorrows  "  of  my  "  Book  of  Songs."  In 
that  the  young  author's  dreamy  cries  of  nature  were  uttered 
with  a  rude,  unpracticed  tongue  ;  but  in  "  Ratcliff  "  his  voice 
had  grown  strong  and  manly,  and  he  speaks  his  final  word 
with  perfect  frankness. 

And  it  became  a  watchword,  at  which  the  pale  face  of  want 
took  color  and  the  florid  cheek  of  the  son  of  fortune  grew 
white  as  chalk.  At  the  hearth  of  the  worthy  Tom,  in  "  Rat- 
cliff,"  the  soup  question  was  already  bubbling,  stirred  by  a 
thousand  bad  cooks,  and  boiling  higher  every  day.  The  poet 
is  a  lucky  creature  ;  he  sees  the  forest  which  slumbers  in  an 
acorn,  and  holds  converse  with  generations  yet  unborn.  They 
whisper  their  secrets  and  he  proclaims  them  in  the  market 
place  ;  but  his  voice  is  drowned  in  the  din  of  daily  suffering  ; 
few  hear  and  none  understand  him.  Friederich  Schlegel 
called  the  historian  a  prophet  looking  back  into  the  past. 
With  more  truth  it  might  be  said  that  the  poet  is  an  historian 
whose  eyes  peer  into  the  future. 

I  wrote  "William  Ratcliff  "f  in  the  Unter  den  Linden  at 
Berlin,  in  the  last  three  days  of  January,  1821,  while  the  sun 
shone  with  a  somewhat  lukewarm  benevolence  on  the  snow- 
covered  roofs  and  sad  leafless  trees.  I  wrote  it  off  without 
any  rough  draft.  As  I  wrote  I  seemed  to  hear  a  rustling 
over  my  head,  like  the  wings  of  birds.  When  I  told  this  to 
my  friends  the  young  Berlin  poets  they  looked  astonished, 
and  assured  me  with  one  voice  that  such  a  thing  had  never 
happened  to  them. 

*  Ditmtit,  stupid. 

f  "  Ratcliff"  was  finished  in  1822. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

tin  Xuncburg. 

LUNEBURG,  June  17,  1823. 
To  Varnhagen  von  Ense  : 

Fortunate  circumstances  have  lately  put  my  family  into  such 
comfortable  and  pleasant  conditions  that  I  should  look  for- 
ward to  a  brighter  future  if  I  did  not  know  that  fate  seldom 
loses  a  chance  to  do  a  bad  turn  to  German  poets.  So,  my 
dear  Varnhagen,  I  cannot  yet  tell  you  anything  certain  as  to 
my  future  plans,  for  I  shall  not  see  my  uncle,  on  whom  much 
depends,  till  next  week,  when  my  sister  is  to  be  married.  If 
that  does  not  lead  to  some  decision  I  shall  come  to  one  at 
Hamburg,  where  I  expect  to  go  soon  after  the  wedding, 
although  the  sight  of  that  town  will  awaken  very  sad  thoughts 
in  my  heart. 

LUNEBURG,  June  28,  1823. 
To  Moses  Moser : 

I  am  leading  a  very  solitary  life  here,  and  do  not  meet  a 
human  being — for  my  parents  keep  aloof  from  all  society.  I 
have  made  acquaintance  only  with  the  trees,  which  are  once 
more  in  their  green  dresses,  reminding  me  of  old  days,  and 
whispering  forgotten  songs  in  my  ear,  which  makes  me  melan- 
choly. Sad  thoughts  rise  in  my  mind  and  overwhelm  me; 
which  perhaps  causes  my  headaches,  or  rajfher  prolongs  them, 
for  they  are  not  as  severe  as  at  Berlin,  though  more  constant. 
I  am  not  yet  on  such  a  footing  with  my  uncle  as  I  should  wish 
to  be,  in  order  to  settle  any  definite  plans  for  the  future.  I 
shall  not  be  able  to  tell  you  anything  certain  on  this  point  before 
my  return  from  Hamburg  ....  Hamburg  will  awaken  many 
bitter  memories,  but  it  will  be  very  advantageous  for  me  to  go 

there There  is  a  pack  of  curs  about  my  uncle  who  are 

very  unfriendly  to  me.  I  may  make  some  acquaintances  in 
Hamburg  who  will  act  as  a  counterpoise  to  them.  But  I  am 
afraid  I  shall  make  more  enemies  than  friends,  with  my  polite 
irony  and  reserve  ...  I  shall  have  much  to  write  you  on  my 
return. 


Letters.  121 

Give  my  regards  to  Gans  and  Zunz  and  to  his  wife  also. 
Tell  them  I  often  think  of  them — which  is  natural  enough,  as 
I  live  quite  alone  here,  and  my  impressions  of  Berlin  run  no 
risk  of  being  weakened.  I  see  you  everywhere,  dear  Moser  ; 
and  it  is  something  more  than  a  sick  man's  weakness  when  I 
so  bitterly  long  to  be  with  you  once  more.  The  gods  grant 
my  wish  may  be  fulfilled  !  Hamburg?  Shall  I  find  as  many 
pleasures  there  as  I  once  found  sorrows  ?  That  is  indeed 
impossible. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
'"Return  Dome." 

HAMBURG,  June  n,  1823. 
To  Moses  Moser : 

I  am  very  uneasy,  my  time  is  much  occupied,  I  have  no 
commission  for  you  to-day,  and  yet  I  must  write  to  you.  No 
outward  change  has  occurred  with  me  ;  but,  ye  gods  !  all  the 
greater  within.  My  old  passion  has  broken  out  fiercely  again. 
I  ought  not  to  have  come  to  Hamburg ;  at  any  rate,  I  must  man- 
age to  get  away  as  soon  as  possible.  A  bad  fancy  has  seized 
upon  me  ;  and  I  begin  to  think  I  am  spiritually  different  from 
other  men,  with  more  depths  in  my  soul.  A  furious  anger  like 
red-hot  iron  oppresses  my  soul  ;  I  long  for  endless  night. 

I  was  well  received  by  my  family.  My  uncle  Salomon  Heine 
promises  me  great  things  ;  but  unfortunately  he  set  off  at  six 
o'clock  yesterday  morning  on  a  journey,  half  of  business,  half 
of  pleasure 

LUNEBURG,  June  24,  1823. 

On  the  22d  I  was  present  with  all  my  family  at  my  sister's 
marriage,  at  the  Zollenspieker.  It  was  a  bright  day  of  rejoic- 
ing and  harmony.  The  food  was  good,  the  beds  were  bad,  and 
my  uncle  Salomon  Heine  was  very  gay.  I  think  I  shall  finally 
get  on  an  excellent  footing  with  him.  Outwardly  we  are  good 
friends,  and  he  flatters  me  openly. 

RlTZEBUTTEL,  AugUSt   23,   1823. 

I  was  in  Hamburg  at  a  bad  time.  My  grief  made  me  rest- 
less ;  and  through  the  death  of  a  cousin  and  the  consequent 
disturbances  in  my  family,  I  found  little  to  comfort  me  in 
others.  The  magic  of  the  place  had  a  terrible  effect  on  my 
soul,  and  awakened  in  it  an  entirely  new  element,  which  wil 
last  for  years,  and  influence  what  I  do  and  endure.  If  I  were 
a  German — I  am  not ;  see  Riihs,  Fries,  and  others* — I  woulc 
write  you  long  letters  on  this  subject,  long  mental  dissertations 

*  Authors  of  various  writings  of  the  day  against  German  Jews. 


Letters.  123 

I  pine  for  the  hours  of  intimate  talk,  when  I  shall  be  able  to 
draw  aside  the  curtain  from  my  heart,  and  show  you  how  my 
new  folly  is  grafted  on  my  old  one.  .  . 


In  my  all  too  gloomy  life 
Once  there  shone  a  picture  sweet  ; 
Now  the  picture  sweet  has  paled, 
I  am  wrapped  in  utter  night. 

When  a  child  in  darkness  lies 
All  his  spirit  is  oppressed, 
And  to  drive  away  his  pain 
He  will  sing  a  song  aloud. 

I,  a  foolish  child,  am  singing 
In  the  darkness  of  this  hour  ; 
Though  the  song  be  harsh  and  rude, 
It  has  eased  me  of  my  pain. 


Upon  the  far  horizon, 
Like  a  cloud-picture,  stands 
The  town  with  all  its  towers, 
Wrapped  in  a  twilight  veil. 

A  misty  breeze  is  wrinkling 
The  river's  waters  gray ; 
The  boatman's  oars  beat  sadly 
As  he  rows  my  boat  along. 

The  sun  sends  out  one  parting  ray 
As  he  sinks  into  the  earth  ; 
It  lights  the  very  spot  where  I 
Lost  her  I  loved  the  best. 


I  bid  thee  hail,  thou  lofty  town, 
That  once  my  secret  hadst, 
When  fast  within  thy  bosom 
Thou  heldest  my  beloved. 

Speak  out,  ye  doors  and  towers, 
Where  is  my  darling  now  ? 
'Twas  in  your  care  I  left  her  ; 
You  should  have  been  her  guards. 


1 24  The  "  Return  Home. ' ' 

Twas  no  fault  of  the  towers, 
From  their  place  they  could  not  move 
When  my  love,  with  chest  of  jewels, 
Fled  fast  from  out  the  town. 

The  doors  too  flew  wide  open, 
And  let  my  darling  through  ; 
A  door*  (and  fool)  are  ready 
When  a  foolish  woman  wills. 


The  night  is  still,  the  streets  are  silent 
Oft  beneath  this  roof  I  met 

My  love  ;  long  years  ago  she  left  it, 
But  the  house  is  standing  yet ; 

And  a  man  with  eyes  uplifted 

Stands  and  rings  his  hands  in  pain  ; 

Ah,  the  horror  !     In  the  moonbeams 
My  own  face  I  see  again. 

Fearful  double  !     Pallid  comrade  ! 

Dost  thou  mock  the  pangs  of  woe 
That  I  felt  where  we  are  standing 

In  the  nights  of  long  ago  ? 


When  I  told  you  of  all  my  sorrows, 
You  yawned  without  any  phrases  ; 

When  I  brought  them  in  elegant  verses, 
You  smothered  me  under  your  praises. 


"  Say,  where  is  thy  pretty  darling, 
Once  the  theme  of  all  thy  lays, 

When  the  flames  of  magic  fire 
Set  thy  heart  in  such  a  blaze  ?  " 

All  those  flames  have  long  been  smothered, 
And  my  heart  is  sad  and  cold  ; 

As  an  urn  I  keep  this  volume, 
The  ashes  of  my  love  to  hold. 

*  A  pun  :  Thor — door,  fool. 


Letters.  125 

RlTZEBUTTEL,  AugUSt  26,   1823. 

To  Moses  Moser : 

The  sea  baths  I  am  taking  here  agree  with  me  ;  if  it  were 
not  for  the  terrible  agitation  of  my  mind  !  My  nerves  are 
much  stronger,  and  if  my  headaches  will  but  go  off  I  will 
write  something  strong  this  year.  Where  I  shall  spend  the 
winter  I  do  not  yet  know  ;  you  see  I  at  present  am  a  man 
who  does  not  know  to-day  what  he  will  have  to  live  on 
to-morrow. 

LUNEBURG,  September  27,  1823. 

I  am  once  more  in  Liineburg,  the  abode  of  ennui.  It  is 
strange  about  my  health  ;  nerves  stronger  but  constant  head- 
aches. They  drive  me  to  despair,  for  I  am  at  work  again  at 
the  law.  I  am  ill  and  provoked  and  wounded  in  many  ways, 
and  am  quite  exasperated  with  the  dull  fellows  who  make  a 
good  living  out  of  a  thing  for  which  I  made  great  sacrifices, 
for  which  my  soul  will  forever  bleed.  They  must  annoy  me  ! 
Just  as  I  have  taken  a  quiet  stand  to  let  the  waves  of  hatred 
toward  the  Jews  beat  upon  me.  I  see  the  effect  of  the  hatred 
on  every  hand,  and  it  is  but  beginning  its  work.  Friends 
with  whom  I  have  passed  most  of  my  life  turn  from  me. 
Admirers  become  disparagers  ;  those  I  love  best  hate  me  most ; 
all  try  to  injure  me.  You  ask  so  often  in  your  letters  if  Rous- 
seau has  written.  That  seems  to  me  an  idle  question.  Many 
another  friend  has  deserted  and  turned  against  me.  I  will  say 
nothing  of  the  herd  of  dear  creatures  that  did  not  know  me 
personally. 

Meanwhile  my  family  and  financial  affairs  are  in  a  sad  state. 
You  call  my  conduct  to  my  uncle  a  want  of  prudence.  You 
wrong  me.  I  do  not  see  why  I  should  not  maintain  the  same 
dignity  with  my  uncle  as  with  other  men.  You  know  I  am 
no  delicate,  sensitive  youth,  who  blushes  to  borrow  money, 
and  stammers  in  asking  help  from  his  best  friend.  I  think 
I  need  not  tell  you  that ;  you  have  found  me  thick-skinned  in 
such  cases  ;  but  it  goes  against  my  nature  to  extract  money 
by  cajoling  or  obsequious  conduct  from  my  uncle,  who  has 
millions  and  does  not  like  to  give  away  a  groschen.  I  was 
rewarded  for  my  self-restraint  by  being  treated  by  my  uncle, 
when  I  spent  several  days  at  his  country  house  at  Hamburg, 
with  respect  and  especial  favor.  In  short,  I  am  a  man  who 
cannot  do  otherwise,  and  will  not  forfeit  his  self-respect  for  any 
hope  of  gain. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 
Close  of  College  lears. 

ALAS  !  GOTTINGEN,  February  2,  1824. 
To  Moses  Moser  : 

Dear  Moser  :  I  have  been  here  nine  days,  which  means  I 
am  bored  to  death;  but  I  chose  to  come.  All  right  ;  no  more 
of  it.  Not  another  complaint  will  I  make.  I  read  Rousseau's 
letter  last  evening,  and  saw  how  tiresome  constant  complaints 
are.  But  I  complain  of  nothing  but  my  health  ;  and  —  you  can 
bear  witness  to  this  —  this  old  complaint  has  been  drawn  out  of 
me  by  the  rascals,  who  try  to  poison  my  life  by  their  machina- 
tions. I  feel  myself  great  enough  for  that.  I  live  only  in  the 
study  of  the  law.  If  you  think  I  shall  not  make  a  good 
jurist  you  are  mistaken.  You  may  refuse  to  employ  me  as 
counsel,  but  do  not  tell  other  people,  or  I  shall  starve.  I  will  eat 
my  dinners  off  of  the  scales  of  Themis,  and  not  off  my  uncle's 
stingy  platter.  Last  summer's  events  made  a  painful  impres- 
sion on  me.  I  am  not  great  enough  to  bear  slights.  I  dare 
say  there  is  more  bad  than  good  in  me  —  though  colossal 
masses  of  both.  But  I  love  the  good,  and  therefore  you, 
good  Moser. 

FEBRUARY  25. 

I  live  very  quietly.  The  corpus  juris  is  my  pillow.  But  I 
have  other  occupations  ;  for  instance,  reading  chronicles  and 
drinking  beer.  I  shall  be  ruined  by  the  library  and  beer  cellar. 
I  am  in  love  troubles  also.  It  is  no  longer  the  early  simple 
love  for  one  only.  I  am  no  longer  a  monotheist  in  love  ;  as  I 
am  devoted  to  double  beer,  so  I  am  to  double  love.  I  love 
the  Medicean  Venus  here  in  the  library,  and  Councilor  Bauer's 
handsome  cook  —  and,  ah  !  both  loves  are  fruitless  !  .  .  . 


MARCH 

.  .  .  Do  not  ask  me  for  any  effort,  as  you  did  in  your  last 
letter.  Whether  it  is  all  over  with  my  poetry  or  not,  and  what 
our  aesthetic  friends  in  Berlin  may  say  of  me  —  what  do  we 

126 


Letters.  127 

care  ?  I  do  not  know  whether  they  are  right  in  saying  my 
light  is  burned  out  ;  but  only  that  I  will  not  write  as  long  as 
I  have  nervous  headaches.  More  than  ever,  I  feel  the  god 
within  me,  and  a  contempt  for  the  multitude  ;  but  the  light 
of  a  man's  mind  must  go  out  sooner  or  later.  More  lasting, 
perhaps  everlasting,  is  the  flame  of  love  (and  friendship  is  a 
spark  of  it)  which  illumines  our  poor  bodies.  Yes,  Moser, 
when  that  flame  goes  out  you  may  feel  anxious — but  as  yet 
there  is  no  danger  ;  I  feel  its  warm  rays.  Farewell  ;  love  me, 
and  be  satisfied  with  what  I  am  and  shall  be,  and  do  not  worry 
over  what  I  might  be  ! 

JUNE  25. 

...  I  have  now  written  one-third  of  my  "  Rabbi,"  but 
have  been  terribly  interrupted  by  pain  ;  and  God  knows 
whether  I  shall  ever  bring  it  to  a  good  end.  I  feel  that  my 
talent  for  composition  is  failing.  But  perhaps  I  do  myself 
wrong,  and  it  is  a  mere  lack  of  material.  .  .  This  year  will 
not  produce  much  poetry.  My  time  is  taken  up  by  head- 
aches and  my  studies.  And  God  knows  if  I  shall  be  ready 
this  year.  And  God  help  me  if  I  am  not !  .  .  .  Byron's 
death  has  greatly  affected  me.  He  was  the  only  man  to 
whom  I  felt  akin,  and  we  must  have  been  alike  in  many 
things.  Laugh  at  me  for  this  as  much  as  you  please.  I  have 
not  read  him  much  of  late  years  ;  we  associate  more  with  men 
whose  characters  are  unlike  our  own.  But  I  have  always  felt 
at  home  with  Byron  as  with  a  comrade.  I  cannot  feel  at  home 
with  Shakespeare  ;  I  feel  too  plainly  that  I  am  not  his  equal ; 
he  is  the  all-powerful  minister  and  I  am  only  councilor ;  it 
seems  as  if  he  could  turn  me  out  at  any  minute. 

JULY  20. 

I  busy  myself  a  good  deal  with  students'  affairs,  and  in 
most  of  the  duels  I  am  either  a  second,  or  umpire,  or  wit- 
ness, or  at  least  a  looker-on.  It  amuses  me,  for  want  of 
something  better.  And  it  is  at  least  better  than  the  wet  rags 
of  teachers,  young  and  old,  of  our  Georgia  Augusta.  Above 
all  things  I  avoid  the  people. 

WEIMAR,  October  i,  1824. 
To  Goethe: 

Your  Excellency  :  I  beg  you  to  grant  me  the  favor  of  stand- 
ing a  moment  in  your  presence.  I  shall  not  be  obstrusive, 


iz8  Close  of  College  Years. 

and  only  ask  to  kiss  your  hand  and  depart.  My  name  is 
Heinrich  Heine,  and  I  am  from  the  Rhine  ;  I  have  been  some 
time  in  Gottingen,  before  which  I  lived  some  years  in  Berlin, 
where  I  associated  with  some  of  your  old  acquaintances  and 
admirers  (the  late  Wolf,  Varnhagen,  etc.),  and  each  day 
learned  to  love  you  more.  I  am  also  a  poet,  and  made  bold, 
three  years  since,  to  send  you  my  poems  ;  and,  a  year  and  a 
half  ago,  my  tragedies,  with  a  lyrical  interlude.  I  am  out  of 
health,  for  which  I  have  made  a  three  weeks'  journey  to  the 
Hartz  ;  and  on  the  Brocken  was  seized  with  a  longing  to 
make  a  pilgrimage  to  Weimar  in  honor  of  Goethe.  I  have 
come  as  a  pilgrim  in  every  sense  of  the  word — that  is,  on 
foot  and  in  shabby  clothes.  I  await  the  granting  of  my 
request.  .  . 


That  correspondence  between  the  personal  appearance  and 
the  genius  within,  which  we  hope  to  find  in  extraordinary 
men,  was  indeed  to  be  seen  in  Goethe.  His  outward  air  was 
as  remarkable  as  the  words  which  live  in  his  writings.  His 
form  was  well  proportioned,  active,  and  noble,  and  as  good  a 
study  of  Greek  art  as  any  antique.  His  manly  figure  was  not 
bowed  down  in  Christian  abasement ;  his  features  not  spoiled 
by  Christian  humility  ;  his  eyes  not  cast  down  with  a  Christian 
sense  of  sin — not  devotional  or  prayerful  in  their  expression 
— not  sparkling  with  emotion — no  :  his  eyes  were  as  calm  as 
the  gods'.  Goethe's  eyes  were  as  godlike  in  his  old  age  as  in 
his  youth.  Time  had  clothed  his  head  with  snow,  but  could 
not  bow  it.  He  held  it  proudly  and  high  ;  he  seemed  even 
greater  when  he  spoke  ;  and  when  he  put  out  his  hand  it 
seemed  as  if  his  finger  might  trace  in  heaven  a  pathway  for 
the  stars.  A  certain  look  of  cold  egoism  has  been  remarked 
in  his  mouth — a  look  common  to  the  everlasting  gods,  and  the 
father  of  the  gods,  great  Jupiter,  to  whom  I  have  already 
likened  Goethe.  In  truth,  when  I  saw  him  at  Weimar  and 
stood  before  him,  I  involuntarily  looked  at  his  side  for  the 
eagle  grasping  the  thunderbolts.  I  was  almost  minded  to 
address  him  in  Greek  ;  but  as  I  observed  that  he  understood 
German,  I  told  him  in  German  that  the  plums  on  the  way 
from  Jena  to  Weimar  were  very  nice.  I  had  thought  in  so 
many  long  winter  nights  what  sublime  and  profound  things  I 
would  say  to  Goethe  when  I  should  at  last  see  him.  And 
when  I  did  at  last  see  him  I  told  him  the  Saxon  plums  were 


Letters.  129 

very  nice.  And  Goethe  smiled.  He  smiled  with  those  same 
lips  which  had  kissed  the  fair  Leda,  Europa,  Danae,  Semele, 
and  so  many  other  princesses  and  even  ordinary  nymphs.  .  . 


It  was  early  when  I  left  Gottingen,  and  the  learned 

was  no  doubt  still  in  bed,  dreaming  as  usual  that  he  was  wan- 
dering in  a  beautiful  garden,  in  whose  beds  grew  fair,  white 
papers,  covered  with  citations,  which  shone  bright  in  the  sun, 
and  that  he  picked  one  here  and  there,  and  planted  it  care- 
fully in  a  new  bed,  while  the  nightingales  charmed  his  old 
heart  with  their  songs.  By  the  Weender  Gate  two  school- 
boys of  the  town  met  me  ;  and  one  said  to  the  other,  "  I  won't 
go  with  Theodore  any  more  ;  he's  a  stupid,  and  didn't  know 
yesterday  what  the  genitive  of  mensa  is."  Unmeaning  as 
these  words  sound  I  must  put  them  down — nay,  I  would 
inscribe  them  over  the  gate  as  the  motto  of  the  town  ;  for  the 
young  peep  as  the  old  pipe  ;  and  these  words  show  the  nar- 
row, dry  pride  in  facts  of  our  very  learned  Georgia  Augusta. 

GOTTINGEN,  October  25,  1824. 
To  Moses  Moser : 

I  should  have  much  to  tell  you  about  my  journey  in  the 
Hartz  ;  but  I  have  begun  to  write  it,  and  mean  to  have  it 
ready  for  Gubitz  this  winter.  There  will  be  some  verses  in 
it  which  will  please  you — fine,  noble  sentiments,  and  such  like 
sweepings  of  my  mind.  What  can  a  man  do  ?  Positively,  to 
oppose  hackneyed  conventionalities  is  a  thankless  task.  I 
went  to  Weimar,  where  the  roast  geese  are  excellent.  Also 
to  Halle,  Jena,  Erfurt,  Gotha,  Eisenach,  and  Cassel.  Long 
journeys,  always  on  foot,  and  in  my  old,  brown,  shabby  coat. 
The  beer  is  first  rate  at  Weimar.  More  about  that  when  I 
see  you. 


The  journey  to  the  Hartz  Mountains  was  and  remains  a 
fragment  ;  and  the  colored  threads,  so  deftly  twined  into  a 
harmonious  braid,  were  as  suddenly  cut  off  as  if  by  the  shears 
of  the  pitiless  Fates.  I  may  some  day  weave  them  into  song  ; 
and  then  all  that  is  now  studiously  concealed  shall  be  told  at 
length.  After  all,  it  is  no  matter  when  and  where  a  man  says 
a  thing,  if  he  only  does  say  it  at  last.  Separate  works  may  as 


130  Close  of  College  Years. 

well  remain  fragments,  if  they  form  a  whole  when  taken  to- 
gether. In  such  a  union  deficiencies  will  be  supplied,  rough 
places  smoothed,  and  what  is  too  bitter  toned  down.  This  may 
be  the  case  with  the  early  pages  of  the  Hartz  journey  ;  and 
they  may  have  a  less  ill-humored  air  when  it  is  seen  by  other 
passages  that  the  dislike  I  have  for  Gottingen  as  a  whole, 
though  greater  than  I  have  expressed,  is  far  from  as  great  as 
the  respect  I  feel  for  certain  individuals  there. 

In  my  journey  and  here  I  note  that  my  little  songs  have 
become  widely  and  strangely  popular.  "  But  men  will  not 
\QVtyou"  said  the  great  Sartorius. 

GOTTINGEN,  October  25,  1824. 
To  Moses  Moser  : 

Precious  little  have  I  written  this  summer.  A  few  sheets 
of  the  "  Memoirs,"  verse  hardly  any,  little  of  the  "  Rabbi,"  so 
that  it  is  hardly  one-third  done.  It  will  be  long — a  thick  vol- 
ume ;  and  I  go  over  the  whole  book  in  my  mind  with  unspeak- 
able delight.  It  is  truly  a  work  of  pure  love,  and  not  of  idle 
desire  of  fame.  On  the  contrary,  if  I  listened  to  the  voice  of 
prudence  I  should  not  write  a  word  of  it.  I  see  beforehand 
what  a  miscarriage  it  will  be,  and  what  enmities  I  shall  stir  up. 
In  spite  of  this,  as  it  is  a  work  of  love,  the  book  will  live  for- 
ever, a  light  in  the  temple  of  God,  and  not  a  sputtering 
theater  lamp.  .  . 

I  do  not  know  what  to  say.  Cohen  assures  me  that  Gans 
is  preaching  Christianity,  and  trying  to  convert  the  children  of 
Israel.  If  he  does  it  from  conviction  he  is  a  fool  ;  if  from 
hypocrisy,  a  knave.  I  shall  certainly  notecase  to  love  Gans ; 
but  I  confess  that  I  should  much  rather  have  heard  that  he 
had  been  stealing  silver  spoons. 

I  cannot  believe  that  you,  dear  Moser,  are  of  the  same  way 
of  thinking  with  Gans,  although  Cohen  says  so,  and  as  hav- 
ing it  straight  from  you.  I  shall  be  very  sorry  if  my  own 
baptism  strikes  you  favorably.  I  assure  you  that  if  one  could 
lawfully  steal  silver  spoons  I  would  not  have  been  christened. 
I  must  talk  with  you  about  this. 

APRIL  i,  1825. 

My  outward  condition  is  unchanged.  I  have  worked  at 
the  law  the  whole  winter,  have  had  many  well  days,  and  but 
for  a  relapse  of  pain  just  now  I  would  go  up  for  my  degree 
in  law.  .  .  My  uncle  in  Hamburg  has  just  sent  me  the  money 


^Degree  of  Tloftor  of  Law.  1 3 1 

for  another  half  year ;  but  everything  he  does  is  done  in  an 
unpleasant  way. 

JULY  22,  1825. 

I  would  have  long  ago  answered  your  letter  of  the  5th  of 
this  month  if  it  had  not  been  for  taking  my  degree — which, 
after  being  delayed  from  day  to  day,  came  off  day  before 
yesterday.  However,  1  discoursed  like  a  coach  horse  on  the 
fourth  and  fifth  theses — oaths  and  confarreatio.  All  went  off 
well  ;  and  the  dean  (Hugo)  praised  me  highly  in  full  con- 
clave, and  expressed  his  surprise  that  a  great  poet  should  be 
also  a  great  jurist.  If  these  last  words  had  not  made  me 
somewhat  distrustful  of  his  praises,  I  should  have  been 
vain  enough  when,  in  a  long  Latin  speech  from  the  chair, 
he  compared  me  to  Goethe,  and  declared  that  by  common 
consent  my  verses  are  worthy  to  stand  by  Goethe's.  And  the 
great  Hugo  spoke  this  from  the  fullness  of  his  heart  ;  and  on 
the  same  day  said  many  fine  things  when  we  took  a  walk 
together,  and  I  was  invited  to  supper  by  him. 


It  was  at  Gottingen  that  I  took  the  degree  of  doctor  of 
law.  after  a  private  examination  and  public  disputation,  in 
which  the  celebrated  Hugo,  then  the  Dean  of  the  Faculty, 
did  not  spare  me  the  smallest  of  the  scholastic  formalities. 
Although  this  fact  may  seem  to  you  of  little  importance,  I  beg 
you  to  observe  it,  as  it  was  asserted  in  a  book  against  me 
that  I  bought  my  academic  degree.  Of  all  the  lies  that  have 
been  printed  about  my  private  life  this  is  the  only  one  that  I 
shall  refute.  There  is  pride  of  learning  !  People  say  I  am  a 
bastard,  an  executioner's  son,  a  highway  robber,  an  atheist,  a 
bad  poet,  and  I  laugh  ;  but  it  breaks  my  heart  to  have  my 
doclorial  rank  doubted  !  Between  ourselves,  though  I  am  a 
doctor  of  laws,  jurisprudence  is  the  branch  of  knowledge  of 
which  I  know  least. 

Here  I  must  relate  a  story  which  is  still  current  in  Gottin- 
gen about  me,  and  may  be  true.  When  I  went  to  Dean  Hugo 
to  be  made  doctor  juris,  I  handed  him  twenty-seven  louis 
d'ors,  the  fee  for  the  degree.  Old  Hugo  was  not  willing  to 
take  them,  saying,  "  We  must  first  prove  you."  Whereupon  I 
answered,  "  Prove  all  things ;  hold  fast  to  that  which  is 
good."  I  must  say  the  old  man  behaved  in  a  very  friendly 


132  Close  of  College  Years. 

way  ;  and  at  my  public  disputation  he  praised,  not  my  knowl- 
edge of  jurisprudence,  but  my  talent  for  versifying,  in  a  very 
fine  Latin  speech. 

GOTTINGEN,  July  I,  1825. 

To  Moses  Moser : 

When  I  write  to  my  uncle  I  will  ask  him  for  the  money  for 
a  trip  to  the  baths,  and  if  my  request  is  granted  I  shall  come 
to  Berlin  earlier  than  I  expected.  If  I  did  not  write  you 
about  Goethe,  and  how  I  saw  him  at  Weimar,  and  how  he 
received  me  in  a  very  friendly  and  condescending  way,  you 
lost  nothing.  He  is  now  but  the  building  in  which  a  noble 
plant  once  bloomed  ;  and  that  was  all  I  found  interesting  in 
him.  He  made  me  sad  ;  and  he  is  dearer  to  me,  now  that  I 
pity  him.  Goethe  and  I  are  two  natures  entirely  repugnant 
to  each  other.  He  is  a  thorough  epicurean,  enjoying  life  to 
the  utmost,  who  has  sometimes  yearned  for  life  in  the  ideal, 
and  sung  it  in  his  poetry — but  was  never  much  affected  by 
anything,  and  has  lived  even  less.  But  I  am  a  man  of 
imagination,  and  so  ready  to  sacrifice  everything  to  my 
ideals,  and  constantly  impelled  to  give  myself  up  to  them. 
Yet  I  have  known  the  joy  of  life,  and  found  delight  in  it ;  and 
there  is  now  a  great  struggle  within  me,  between  my  cooler 
reason,  which  believes  in  the  joy  of  life  and  rejects  all  self- 
sacrificing  enthusiasm  as  mere  folly,  and  those  romantic 
impulses  which  often  come  over  me  with  resistless  force,  and 
drag  me  down  again  to  the  old  realms  of  fancy — I  ought  per- 
haps to  say,  drag  me  up  to  them  ;  for  it  is  a  question  whether 
a  dreamer,  who  gives  up  his  life  to  the  ideal,  does  not  enjoy 
more  in  one  moment  than  Herr  von  Goethe  has  in  all  his 
seventy-six  years  of  easy,  egotistical  life. 

But  more  about  this  another  time  ;  to-day  my  head  is 
fatigued  with  unspeakable  exertions.  You  will  find  this  topic 
in  the  "  Rabbi." 


BOOK  III. 

YEARS  OF  WANDERING  LIFE. 
1825-1831. 


CHAPTER  I. 
Sea. 


ISLE  OF  NORDENEY,  August  14,  1825. 
To  Ferdinand  Oesterley  : 

I've  been  rushing  head  over  heels  to  get  here  to  the  sea 
baths.  I  must  be  in  Liineburg  by  the  end  of  September, 
shall  stay  here  four  weeks,  and  meanwhile  or  afterward  make 
an  excursion  to  Holland.  I  have  already  enjoyed  at  Emden 
a  foretaste  of  the  Dutch  character.  I  almost  died  of  laughter 
when  I  kissed  my  first  pretty  Dutch  girl,  and  she  stood  phleg- 
matically  quiet,  and  said  nothing  but  one  everlasting  Mynheer  ! 
The  gods  know  whether  I  shall  carry  out  my  plans,  and  go 
back  to  Gottingen  for  the  sake  of  the  library.  I  am  ordered 
to  think  of  nothing  here,  and  to  stick  my  head  every  morning 
into  the  foaming  North  Sea.  Have  taken  ten  baths  already, 
and  feel  well.  Good-by,  and  remember  me  kindly. 


I  often  walk  here  on  the  sands,  and  dream  of  wonderful 
sea  legends.  The  most  interesting  of  them  is  certainly  the 
story  of  the  Flying  Dutchman,  whom  men  see  in  storms  driv- 
ing by  under  full  sail,  and  who  occasionally  puts  out  a  boat, 
to  send  aboard  the  other  vessel  letters  which  can  never  be 
forwarded,  because  they  are  addressed  to  people  who  died 
long  ago.  I  often  think  too  of  the  dear  old  tale  of  the  fisher 
boy  who  saw  the  sea  nymphs  dancing  on  the  beach  one  night, 
and  afterward  wandered  about  the  world  with  his  fiddle  enchant- 
ing everyone  by  playing  the  nymphs'  waltz.  A  dear  friend 
told  me  the  story  in  Berlin,  at  a  concert,  where  we  heard 
such  another  wonderful  boy,  Felix  Mendelssohn-Bartholdy. 

Cruising  around  the  island  has  a  pleasure  of  its  own.  The 
waves  must  be  on  their  best  behavior,  and  one  must  lie  on 
his  back  on  the  deck  and  look  at  the  heavens,  and  also  have  a 
little  piece  of  heaven  in  his  heart.  Then  the  waves  murmur 
in  a  wonderful  way  certain  words  that  recall  happy  memories, 
certain  names  that  thrill  the  soul  with  happy  anticipations — 
"  Evelina  !  "  Ships  sail  by,  and  you  greet  each  other,  as  if 

'35 


136  The  Sea. 

you  met  every  day.  But  at  night  there  is  something  uncanny 
in  meeting  ships  at  sea  ;  and  you  fancy  that  your  best  friends 
whom  you  have  not  seen  for  years  may  be"  passing  by  in 
silence,  and  be  lost  forever. 

I  love  the  sea  as  I  love  my  soul. 

And  I  often  feel  as  if  the  sea  were  indeed  my  soul ;  and  as 
there  are  sea-plants  which  rise  to  the  surface  only  in  the  season 
of  their  blooming,  and  sink  again  when  their  flowers  fade,  so 
there  come  wonderful  flowery  pictures  out  of  the  depths  of  my 
soul,  and  breathe  odors,  and  glow,  and  disappear — "  Evelina  !  " 

They  say  that  not  far  from  the  island,  where  now  all  is 
water,  there  once  stood  fair  towns  and  cities,  which  the  sea 
overwhelmed  in  an  instant.  And  in  calm  weather  the  boat- 
men see  the  shining  points  of  the  drowned  church  spires,  and 
in  early  Sunday  mornings  they  have  heard  the  sweet  chime  of 
bells.  The  story  is  true — for  the  sea  is  my  soul. 

"  A  lovely  world  is  here  below, 

Its  ruins  still  remain, 
And  shine  like  golden  sparks  in  heaven 
In  the  mirror  of  my  dreams." 

And  starting  from  slumber  I  hear  the  echo  of  bells  and  the 
song  of  human  voices — "  Evelina  !  " 

And  as  you  walk  along  the  shore  the  ships  sailing  by  are 
fair  to  see.  When  their  sails  are  set  they  look  like  great 
passing  swans.  The  sight  is  fairest  when  the  sun  sets  behind 
the  passing  ships,  and  a  glory  of  rays  streams  out  round  them. 

It  is  pleasant  too  to  go  shooting  along  the  shore.  For 
myself,  I  do  not  greatly  enjoy  it.  Love  of  the  Great,  the 
Beautiful,  the  Good,  often  comes  from  education  ;  but  the  love 
of  the  chase  is  in  the  blood.  If  the  ancestors  shot  deer  from 
time  immemorial  their  grandchildren  will  find  pleasure  in  such 
legitimate  business.  But  my  ancestors  were  no  hunters  ;  more 
likely  they  were  of  the  hunted.  So  my  blood  revolts  at  the 
idea  of  firing  at  the  descendants  of  their  former  companions. 
Yes,  I  know  by  experience  that  I  would  rather  shoot  at 
the  proper  distance  at  a  sportsman  who  regrets  the  days  when 
men  ranked  among  noble  game.  Thank  God,  those  days  are 
gone  !  If  such  sportsmen  now  amuse  themselves  by  hunting 
a  man  they  must  pay  him  for  it ;  as  in  the  case  of  the  traveler 
on  foot,  whom  I  saw  at  Gottingen  two  years  ago.  The  poor 
fellow  had  walked  till  he  was  tired  on  a  hot  Sunday  ;  and  some 


On  the  Seashore.  137 


Hanoverian  youngsters,  who  were  studying  the  humanities, 
offered  him  a  couple  of  thalers  to  walk  back  again  the  way  he 
had  come.  The  fellow  started,  pale  as  a  sheet,  in  his  red 
jacket ;  and  behind  him,  in  a  whirlwind  of  dust,  galloped  the 
well-fed  and  worthy  youths  on  their  prancing  horses,  whose 
hoofs  now  and  then  struck  the  hunted,  panting  man — and  he 
was  a  human  being. 

As  an  experiment,  and  to  accustom  myself  to  it,  I  went 
shooting  yesterday.  I  fired  at  some  gulls  who  were  flying 
near  me  imprudently,  for  they  could  not  be  sure  I  was  a  bad 
shot.  I  did  not  want  to  hit  them,  but  only  to  give  them  a 
warning  to  be  more  cautious  another  time  with  men  who  have 
guns  ;  but  I  missed  my  aim,  and  was  unlucky  enough  to  shoot 
a  young  gull  dead.  It  was  lucky  it  was  not  an  old  one,  for 
then  it  would  have  gone  hard  with  the  poor  little  gulls,  who 
lay  in  their  sandy  nest  all  unfledged,  and  would  have  starved 
without  their  mother.  I  knew  I  should  be  unlucky  in  my 
hunt,  for  a  hare  ran  across  my  path. 

A  strange  feeling  comes  over  me  when  I  wander  alone  on 
the  shore  in  the  twilight — the  level  dunes  behind  me,  before 
me  the  vast,  raging  ocean,  above  me  the  heavens,  like  a  huge 
crystal  dome.  I  seem  to  myself  the  merest  insect,  and  yet 
my  soul  goes  far  afield.  The  uniformity  of  the  nature  around 
me  at  once  subdues  and  elevates  me  to  a  higher  degree  than 
any  surroundings  have  ever  done  before.  No  cathedral  is 
large  enough  for  me  ;  my  soul  in  its  Titanic  longings  rises 
higher  than  the  Gothic  columns,  and  seeks  to  pierce  the  roof. 
On  the  top  of  the  Rosstrappe  the  colossal  cliffs  at  first  sight 
overawed  me  with  their  bold  forms  ;  but  the  impression  did 
not  last  long  ;  my  soul  was  surprised,  not  overcome  ;  and  the 
monstrous  masses  of  stone  grew  gradually  smaller  to  my  eye, 
until  at  last  they  seemed  mere  remains  of  a  ruined  palace,  in 
which  my  soul  might  have  taken  its  ease. 

NORDERNEY,  September  i,  1825. 
To  Christian  Sethe : 

O  Christian,  I  am  in  a  very  weak  state  to-day,  and  must  talk 
of  old  things,  old  sorrows,  and  new  follies,  of  bitter  stupidity, 
and  the  sweetness  of  woe.  I  am  still  the  old  fool,  who  has 
no  sooner  made  peace  with  the  outer  world  than  he  begins  to 
be  at  war  within  himself.  The  weather  is  horrible ;  the  sea 
roars  continually.  Oh,  if  I  were  but  lying  buried  under  the 
white  sands  !  I  have  grown  very  modest  in  my  wishes.  1 


138  The  Sea. 

used  to  wish  to  be  buried  under  a  palm  by  the  Jordan.  This 
cursed  taking  leave  of  people  breaks  me  down — like  the  minor 
key.  I  have  passed  happy  days  here.  My  vanity  was  stroked 
the  right  way  by  fair  hands  ;  and  I  almost  began  to  think  Dr. 
Heine  was  a  truly  lovable  creature,  and  reveled  in  the  sight 
of  the  beautiful  woman,  in  whose  company  you  saw  me.  She 
was  very  kind  to  me  at  last — and  she  has  gone.  It  was  hard 
for  me  to  take  leave  of  the  Princess  Solms  also  ;  we  suited 
each  other,  and  teased  each  other  delightfully.  She  praised 
me  a  great  deal ;  and  you  know  that  never  fails  to  make  its 
impression. 

EVENING    TWILIGHT. 

On  the  pallid  ocean  strand 

I  sat  wrapped  in  sad  thought  and  lonely. 

The  sun  sank  lower  and  threw 

Glowing  red  streaks  on  the  water. 

And  the  white,  wide  waves, 

By  the  flood  compelled, 

Foamed  and  roared  nearer  and  nearer — 

A  wonderful  sound,  a  whispering  and  piping, 

A  laughing  and  murmuring,  sighing  and  whistling ; 

And  with  these,  low  voices,  cradle-songs  singing, 

Die  away  voices,  seemed  telling  me  stories — 

Old-time,  wonderful  fables, 

Which  in  the  days  of  my  childhood 

From  neighbors'  children  I  heard, 

When  we,  on  warm  summer  evenings, 

On  the  flagstone  by  the  house  door, 

Crouched  down  to  hear  the  low  story, 

With  little  listening  hearts 

And  wide  open,  curious  eyes. 

Meanwhile  the  older  maidens, 

Behind  the  sweet-scented  flowers, 

Close  by  the  window  were  sitting, 

Faces  of  roses, 

Smiling,  and  touched  by  the  moonbeams. 

POSEIDON. 

The  rays  of  the  sun  were  playing 

On  the  wide-rolling  sea  ; 

Afar  in  the  roadstead  gleamed  the  ship 


Poseidon.  139 

That  will  bear  me  to  my  home  ; 

But  no  favoring  breeze  was  blowing, 

And  I  still  sat  quiet  on  the  white  dune 

Upon  the  lonely  shore. 

And  I  read  the  song  of  Odysseus, 

The  old,  the  ever  young  song, 

From  out  whose  sea-rustled  leaves 

Joyously  came  unto  me 

The  breath  of  the  gods, 

And  the  glowing  springtime  of  men, 

And  the  blooming  heaven  of  Hellas. 

My  constant  heart  went  faithful  along 

With  the  son  of  Laertes,  through  wandering  and  hardship, 

Sat  with  him,  grieved  in  my  soul, 

At  the  friendly  hearthstone, 

Where  queens  were  weaving  the  purple, 

And  helped  him  deceive,  and  escape  with  good  fortune 

From  the  caverns  of  giants,  and  arms  of  the  sea  nymphs, 

Followed  him  in  the  terrible  nights, 

And  in  storm  and  in  shipwreck, 

And  with  him  suffered  unspeakable  woes. 

Sighing,  I  spoke  :  "  O  cruel  Poseidon, 

Thy  rage  is  frightful, 

And  I  too  am  sad 

For  my  own  journey  homeward." 

I  had  hardly  spoken  the  words, 

When  the  sea  boiled, 

And  out  of  the  white  waves  arose 

The  weed-crowned  head  of  the  sea  god, 

And  scornfully  spoke. 

"  Fear  not,  thou  little  poet  ! 

I  will  not  in  the  least  endanger 

Thy  little  bark, 

Nor  peril  thy  precious  life 

With  too  much  violent  tossing. 

For  thou,  little  poet,  hast  never  provoked  me  ; 

Thou  didst  not  destroy  one  single  turret 

Of  the  sacred  fortress  of  Priamus, 

Neither  a  single  hair  didst  thou  burn 

Of  the  eye  of  my  son  Polyphemus  ; 


i4°  The  Sea. 

Nor  wast  ever  preserved  by  the  counsels 
Of  the  goddess  of  wisdom,  Pallas  Athene." 

So  spoke  Poseidon, 

And  sank  again  into  the  ocean. 

And  at  his  rough  sailor-jokes 

Laughed  beneath  the  billows 

Amphitrite,  the  jolly  fishwife, 

And  the  foolish  daughters  of  Nereus. 


SEA     GHOSTS. 

I  lay  on  the  edge  of  the  ship, 

And  gazed  with  dreamy  eyes 

Down  on  the  mirror-like  water, 

Looking  in  deeper  and  deeper — 

Down  to  the  depths  of  the  sea. 

At  first  like  clouds  of  the  dawn, 

Then  growing  plainer  in  color, 

Spires  and  towers  arose, 

And  at  last,  plain  as  day,  a  whole  town, 

Old-fashioned,  Netherlandish, 

And  crowded  with  people. 

Deliberate  men,  in  dark-colored  mantles, 

With  snowy  ruffs  and  chains  of  office, 

And  long  swords  and  long  faces, 

Walked  across  the  crowded  market, 

To  the  high  steps  of  the  townhouse, 

Where  stony  figures  of  kaisers 

Kept  watch  with  scepter  and  sword. 

Close  by,  from  out  long  rows  of  houses, 

With  windows  clean  as  mirrors, 

And  lindens  trimmed  into  cones, 

In  rustling  silk  came  maidens, 

Slender  in  form,  with  faces  like  roses 

Modestly  framed  in  black  caps, 

From  under  which  gold  hair  was  straying. 

Youths  in  bright  clothes,  Spanish  in  fashion, 

Strutted  along  and  carelessly  nodded. 

Elderly  women, 

In  brown  and  well-worn  garments, 

Hymn  books  and  chaplets  in  hand, 

Hurried  with  tripping  step 


Sea  Ghosts.  141 

Toward  the  lofty  cathedral, 
Called  by  the  voices  of  bells, 
And  pealing  tones  of  the  organ. 

O'er  me,  too,  at  the  distant  chime 

Comes  a  mysterious  shudder  ! 

Endless  longing,  bitter  woe 

Creeps  on  my  heart, 

My  heart  but  newly  healed  ; 

It  is  as  though  its  tender  wounds 

By  loving  lips  were  kissed, 

Until  they  bled  anew — 

Scalding,  ruddy  drops. 

Long  and  slow  they  trickle  down 

On  an  old  house  there  below, 

In  the  sunken  ocean  town — 

On  an  old  and  high  built  house, 

Standing  sadly  and  deserted — 

Save  that,  at  a  lower  window, 

Sits  a  maiden, 

And  leans  her  head  upon  her  arm, 

Like  a  poor,  forgotten  child — 

And  I  know  thee,  poor,  forgotten  child. 

So  deep,  deep  as  is  the  sea, 

Thou  from  me  didst  hide, 

In  childish  whim, 

And  couldst  not  come  again, 

And  tarriedst  strange  among  strangers 

For  a  whole  century. 

And  I,  my  soul  oppressed  with  woe, 

Through  all  the  world  went  seeking  thee, 

Forever  seeking  thee, 

Thee  forever  loved, 

Thee,  the  long  lost  one, 

Thee  found  again  at  last — 

I  have  found  thee  again,  and  again  I  gaze 

Upon  the  sweet  face, 

The  brave,  true  eyes, 

The  loving  smile. 

And  never  will  I  leave  thee  more, 

And  down  unto  thee  I  come. 


142  The  Sea. 

And  with  arms  outstretched  to  thee, 
I  plunge  down  to  thy  heart 

But  at  just  the  proper  moment, 
The  captain  caught  me  by  the  foot, 
And  dragged  me  back  into  the  ship, 
And  laughing,  half  in  anger,  said  : 
"  Doctor,  are  you  the  devil's  own  ? " 


CHAPTER  II. 
Sbe  •ReisebU&er. 

LftNEBURG,  October  25,  1825. 
To  Friederike  Robert. 

I  am  glad  to  hear,  fair  lady,  that  you  have  made  my  uncle 
Salomon  Heine's  acquaintance.  How  did  he  please  you  ? 
Tell  me,  tell  me  !  He  is  a  man  of  consequence,  who  has  very 
great  faults  and  very  great  qualities.  We  are  constantly  at 
variance,  but  I  love  him  exceedingly — almost  better  than  my- 
self. We  are  much  alike  in  our  ways  and  characters  ;  the 
same  obstinate  boldness,  unbounded  tenderheartedness,  and 
unaccountable  craziness — only  Fortune  finished  him  off  as  a 
millionaire,  and  me  the  opposite — that  is,  a  poet ;  and  so,  very 
different  in  our  ideas  and  ways.  I  beg  you  to  tell  me  how 
you  like  him.  I  shall  see  this  uncle  next  week,  as  I  am  going 
to  Hamburg,  to  set  up  as  a  lawyer. 


Of  the  seven  years  which  I  passed  at  German  universities, 
I  spent  three  fair,  blooming  years  of  life  in  the  study  of 
Roman  casuistry,  jurisprudence — that  illiberal  science.  I 
went  through  that  accursed  study,  but  could  never  decide  to 
make  any  use  of  my  knowledge;  partly  perhaps  because  I  felt 
that  others  would  easily  beat  me  in  argufying  and  pettifog- 
ging, I  hung  my  doctor  of  laws'  hat  on  the  nail. 

My  mother  looked  more  serious  than  ever.  But  I  had 
grown  older — old  enough  to  renounce  a  mother's  control. 
The  good  woman  had  grown  older  too  ;  and  as  she  had  given 
up  all  attempt  to  direct  me  in  life  after  so  many  fiascos,  she 
regretted,  as  we  have  seen,  that  she  had  not  devoted  me  to  a 
religious  career. 

143 


144  The  l^eisebUder. 


They  loved  one  another,  but  neither 
The  truth  to  the  other  would  tell  ; 
They  looked  at  each  other  unkindly, 
Determined  to  die  of  their  love. 

They  parted  at  last,  and  their  glances 
Ne'er  met,  save  sometimes  in  a  dream  ; 
They  both  had  been  dead  for  a  long  time, 
And  hardly  knew  it  themselves. 


I,  unhappy  Atlas,  a  whole  world, 
The  entire  world  of  sorrow,  must  I  bear  ; 
I  bear  the  unbearable,  and  full  sure 
My  heart  will  break  in  my  bosom. 

Oh,  thou  proud  heart  !     It  was  of  thine  own  will  ! 
Thou  wouldst  be  happy,  aye,  forever  happy, 
Or  else  forever  wretched,  O  proud  heart  ; 
And  now  thou  wretched  art. 


HAMBURG,  December  30,  1825. 
To  Karl  Simrock : 

The  good  reception  which  my  first  productions  met  with 
has  not  convinced  me — as  unhappily  is  generally  the  case — 
that  I  am  an  out  and  out  genius,  who  has  nothing  to  do  but 
to  spin  out  sweet,  bright  poems  and  let  all  the  world  admire 
him.  No  one  feels  more  than  I  how  hard  it  is  to  produce 
any  literary  work  that  does  not  already  exist,  and  how  unsat- 
isfactory it  must  be  to  a  mind  of  any  depth  to  write  only 
to  please  the  idle  crowd.  We  are  both  well  past  our  salad 
days  and  salad  day  loves  ;  and  any  lyricism  we  now  permit 
ourselves  must  be  wrung  out  of  us  by  an  element  in  our 
souls,  irony,  which  you  handle  in  a  good-natured,  Goethe-like 
way,  but  which  leads  me  to  be  bitter  and  gloomy. 

HAMBURG,  January  9,  1826. 
To  Moses  Moser : 

I  am  living  here  very  much  alone,  reading  Livy,  reviewing 
my  old  ideas,  meditating  some  new  ideas,  and  writing  poor 
things  of  no  importance.  Of  my  outward  affairs  I  can  and 
will  say  little  to-day  ;  but  I  will  confide  this  much  to  you — I 
am  better  off  than  I  myself  know.  What  most  torments  me  is 


Letters.  145 

my  own  self.  In  truth,  I  am  so  disturbed  inwardly  that  I 
cannot  think  of  outward  things.  The  only  places  I  visit  here 
are  the  houses  of  my  sister,  my  uncle,  the  syndic  Sieveking, 
and  Candidate  Wohlwill.  My  uncle  is  gracious  to  me,  very 
gracious — which  is  the  more  meritorious  as  he  is  surrounded  by 
none  but  my  enemies.  I  am  now  hated  by  Christian  and  Jew. 
I  am  very  sorry  I  was  christened  ;  I  do  not  see  that  things 
have  gone  any  better  with  me  since  ;  on  the  contrary,  I  have 
had  nothing  but  ill  luck  from  that  time.  Is  it  not  foolish  ? 
No  sooner  have  I  been  christened  than  I  am  cried  down  as  a 
Jew.  But  I  say  again,  nothing  but  disappointments  since. 
But  not  a  word  of  this.  You  are  too  liberal  minded  not  to 
laugh  at  it. 

FEBRUARY  24,  1826. 

I  care  nothing  what  people  think  of  me,  and  they  may  say 
what  they  will  ;  but  it  is  another  thing  when  these  thoughts 
or  sayings  are  told  to  me  personally.  That  is  my  personal 
honor.* 

At  the  university  I  fought  two  duels  with  swords  because 
men  looked  askance  at  me,  and  one  with  pistols  for  an  insult- 
ing word.  These  are  attacks  on  my  personal  dignity,  with 
the  loss  of  which  I  could  not  live.  And  now  Cohen  is 
declaring  at  my  uncle's  that  I  am  a  gambler,  leading  an  idle 
life,  must  be  in  bad  hands,  have  no  character,  and  much  more 
of  the  same  sort — either  to  show  his  own  importance  or 
because  he  is  stupid  enough  to  think  it  will  do  him  any 
good.  I  am  in  a  rage,  and  feel  my  honor  deeply  wounded  ; 
but  what  wounds  me  most  is  that  it  is  my  own  fault  for  giving 
way  too  readily  and  childishly  to  my  friends  and  my  friends' 
friends. 

HAMBURG,  May  14,  1826. 
To  Varnhagen  von  Ense  : 

And  now  after  putting  it  off  so  long  I  must  write  to  you  at 
once  and  in  a  hurry.  But  this  is  not  a  letter,  but  only  a 
request  that  you  will  give  the  accompanying  book  in  my  name 
to  our  dear,  good,  noble  Friederike,  and  say  all  good  things 
to  her  from  me.  In  the  private  letter  which  I  will  shortly 
write  you  I  will  tell  you  in  full  how  I  am,  how  I  am  living, 

*  Moser  had  found  fault  with  Heine  for  his  attacks  on  certain  religious 
reforms  in  Hamburg. 


i46  The  ^eisebilder . 


what  I  am  writing,  and  what  I  am  not  writing.  No  more  for 
the  moment  ;  my  health  is  steadily  improving,  and  this  air 
agrees  perfectly  with  me. 

Affairs  are  just  the  same  with  me  ;  I  have  not  yet  con- 
trived to  make  a  nest  for  myself  ;  and  this  talent,  which  is 
strongly  developed  in  insects  and  certain  doctores  juris  here,  is 
utterly  wanting  in  me.  So  I  have  had  to  give  up  my  plan  of 
settling  here  as  an  advocate;  but  do  not  fancy  from  this  that 
I  am  going  to  move  away.  I  like  the  place  extremely  ;  here 
is  the  classic  ground  of  my  love  ;  all  seems  enchantment ; 
the  life  that  lay  sleeping  has  awakened  in  my  bosom,  it  is 
spring  again  in  my  heart  ;  and  if  my  old  headaches  will  quite 
leave  me  you  may  expect  some  good  books  from  me.  If  my 
outward  situation  is  painful,  my  reputation  protects  me  from 
all  attack.  Unluckily  I  must  confess  that  this  reputation  will 
not  be  much  improved  by  the  appearance  of  the  first  volume 
of  the  "  Reisebilder."  But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  must  publish 
something  ;  and  if  it  does  not  excite  general  interest  and  is  of 
no  great  value,  there  is  nothing  in  it  that  can  be  called  bad. 
...  I  have  alienated  a  great  many  useful  friends,  partly  by 
and  partly  without  my  own  fault,  and  roused  many  adversa- 
ries. .  .  What  troubles  me  most  is  the  disagreeable  thought 
that  my  book  is  really  not  worthy  to  be  dedicated  to  the 
cleverest  woman  in  the  universe.  But  I  am  consoled  by  the 
reflection  that  Frau  von  Varnhagen  will  not  give  me  up,  let 
me  write  what  I  may,  good  or  bad.  It  is  different  with  you, 
Varnhagen  ;  not  satisfied  with  my  showing  how  many  notes 
there  are  in  my  lyre,  you  must  have  them  all  joined  in  one 
grand  concert — and  the  "  Faust "  I  am  writing  for  you  will  do 
this.  For  who  has  a  better  right  to  my  poetic  exertions 
than  he  who  led  and  directed  my  poetic  efforts  and  essays  ? 

HAMBURG,  May  26,  1826. 
To  Karl  Simrock : 

Here  you  have  my  latest  little  book,  just  fresh  from  the 
press.  .  .  In  the  next  volume  you  shall  see  the  flowing 
Rhine.  Whether  the  public  will  fancy  the  "  North  Sea  Pictures" 
is  doubtful.  The  strange,  swinging  meter  may  make  the 
average  sugar  and  water  readers  seasick.  There  is  nothing 
like  following  the  old  respectable,  well-trodden  roads,  or  run- 
ning in  the  old  ruts  of  the  highway.  You  can  hardly  imagine, 
dear  Simrock,  how  I  love  the  sea  ;  I  shall  soon  be  on  the  water 
again,  and  it  may  be  some  time  before  I  come  to  Berlin. 


'Poetry  and  'Prose.  147 

HAMBURG,  June  7,  1826. 
To  Wilhelm  Mutter : 

The  "  North  Sea  "  is  one  of  my  latest  poems ;  and  you  see 
by  it  what  new  notes  I  have  sounded  and  what  new  paths  I  am 
treading.  .  .  Prose  has  seized  me  in  her  wide  arms,  and  in 
the  next  volume  of  the  "  Reisebilder  "  you  will  find  plenty  of 
crazy,  harsh,  abusive,  angry  and  especially  polemic  prose. 
The  times  are  bad,  and  he  who  has  strength  and  courage 
is  bound  to  join  in  the  battle  against  the  swelling  evils,  and 
against  the  indifference  which  is  widespreading,  unbearably 
widespreading.  I  beg  you  to  continue  your  kindness  to  me, 
and  never  forsake  me  ;  let  us  grow  old,  striving  side  by  side. 
I  am  vain  enough  to  think  that  my  name  will  one  day,  when 
we  are  no  more,  be  remembered  with  yours ;  and  let  us, 
through  our  lives,  be  united  in  friendship. 


CHAPTER  III. 


NORDERNEY,  July  8,  1826. 

To  Moses  Moser: 

Once  more  I  am  swimming  in  the  North  Sea.  I  delight  in 
the  salt  element  ;  my  spirit  is  light  when  the  waves  toss  my 
boat  hither  and  thither  like  a  ball  ;  and  the  idea  of  drowning 
is  a  consoling  one  —  the  only  consolation  the  cruel  priest  of 
Heliopolis  has  left  me,  as  he  lays  no  beams  under  the  water. 

What  a  terrible  truth  there  is  in  the  story  of  the  Wandering 
Jew  !  In  the  lonely  valley,  the  mother  tells  the  terrible  story 
to  the  children  as  they  crouch  trembling  round  the  fire  ;  the 
night  is  dark  without  ;  the  posthorn  sounds  —  the  Jew  peddlers 
pass  by  on  their  way  to  the  Leipsic  fair.  We  are  the  heroes  of 
the  story,  but  do  not  know  it.  No  barber  shall  ever  shave  that 
white  beard,  turning  black  again  under  the  hand  of  time,  as  it 
restores  his  lost  youth.  .  .  . 

At  Cuxhaven,  where  I  stopped  for  nine  days  on  my  way 
hither,  on  account  of  the  unfavorable  winds,  I  spent  delightful 
hours  in  the  companionship  of  Jeannette  Jacobson,  by  marriage 
Goldschmidt.  No  ;  I  will  not  lie  to  you  —  no  West-east  wind, 
but  the  West-east  lady  herself,,  held  me  captive  for  nine  days 
in  Cuxhaven.  Oh,  she  is  fair  and  lovely  ! 

NORDERNEY,  July  25,  1826. 
To  Friederich  Merckel  : 

Night  before  last,  at  one  o'clock,  I  left  Cuxhaven.  It  was  a 
wild  night,  and  my  feelings  were  not  of  the  calmest  sort  either. 
The  vessel  lay  off  in  the  roadstead  ;  and  the  yawl  in  which 
I  put  off  to  her  was  three  times  driven  back  into  port  by  thf 
stormy  waves.  The  little  boat  bounded  under  me  like  a  horse 
and  it  was  a  narrow  escape  that  a  lot  of  unwritten  sea  pictures 
and  their  author  to  boot,  did  not  go  to  the  bottom.  But  —  ma] 
the  Lord  of  the  elements  forgive  my  sins  —  I  was  quite  cheerfu 
all  the  time.  I  had  nothing  to  lose  ! 


Frau  von  Varnbagen.  149 


The  sea  was  so  wild  that  I  several  times  thought  I  should 
be  drowned.  But  the  congenial  element  did  me  no  such  ill 
turn.  It  knows  well  that  I  can  be  wilder  yet.  And  then,  am 
I  not  the  court  poet  of  the  North  Sea  ?  And  it  knows  I  have 
the  second  part  still  to  write. 


It  is  delightful  here.  The  fair  lady  has  already  come,  and 
the  Princess  of  Solms,  with  whom  I  spent  some  pleasant  days 
last  year.  Have  gambled  a  little  too,  and  with  better  luck  than 
at  Cuxhaven,  where  I  lost  five  louis-d'or. 

NORDERNEY,  July  29,  1826. 

To  Varnhagen  von  Ense: 

My  health  continues  to  be  better.  To  set  it  thoroughly 
right,  I  am  taking  sea  baths  here,  and  again  swimming  in  the 
North  Sea,  which  is  kind  to  me,  as  it  knows  I  am  its  poet. 
The  sea  is  a  fine  element.  If  far  away  from  it,  I  get  very  home- 
sick. My  "  North  Sea  Pictures  "  were  written  con  amore,  and 
I  am  glad  they  please  you.  How  glad  I  am,  too,  that  my 
"  Pictures  of  Travel  "  were  well  received.  Enchanted,  truly 
enchanted,  almost  intoxicated  was  I  by  Frau  von  Varnhagen's 
letter.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  never  doubted  about  her.  I  know 
her  pretty  well.  And  so  I  feel  that  no  one  knows  and  under- 
stands me  so  thoroughly  as  Frau  von  Varnhagen.  When  I  read 
her  letter,  I  seemed  to  have  got  up  in  my  sleep,  and  to  be  look- 
ing in  the  glass  and  talking  to  myself,  and  even  boasting  a 
little.  The  best  of  it  is,  I  need  not  write  Frau  von  Varnhagen 
long  letters.  If  she  knows  I  am  alive,  she  knows  what  I  feel 
and  think.  I  believe  she  understood  the  real  meaning  of  my 
Dedication  better  than  I  did.  I  think  I  meant  to  express  by  it 
that  I  belong  to  someone.  I  run  wild  so  much  over  the  earth 
that  people  often  come  along  who  claim  me  for  their  own  ; 
but  they  have  always  been  people  who  did  not  much  please  me  ; 
and  as  long  as  this  continues  to  be  so,  my  collar  will  be  marked, 
J'apparticns  a  Mine.  Varnhagen. 

NORDERNEY,  August  4,  1826. 
To  Friederich  Merckel : 

I  am  not  so  happy  here  as  last  year,  and  my  own  temper  is 
more  to  blame  than  the  people  here.  I  am  often  unjust  to 
them.  And  so  it  seems  to  me  that  the  beautiful  lady  from  Zell 


150  Border  ney. 

is  not  so  beautiful  now  as  in  1825.  The  sea  too  is  not  so 
romantic  in  my  eyes  as  it  once  was.  Yet  on  its  shore  I  have  met 
with  the  sweetest  mystical  adventure  that  ever  charmed  a  poet. 
The  moon  wanted  to  show  me  that  there  are  yet  some  glorious 
things  for  me  in  this  world.  We  spoke  no  word — it  was  one 
long,  earnest  look — the  moon  made  music  for  us  the  while. 
As  I  passed,  I  took  her  hand,  and  felt  its  secret  pressure ;  my 
soul  trembled  and  glowed.  And  then  I  wept. 

What  is  the  use  ?  If  I  am  bold  enough  to  seize  upon  good 
fortune,  I  cannot  hold  it  long.  I  feared  it  would  soon  be  day 
— only  darkness  gives  me  courage.  A  beautiful  eye — it  will 
long  live  in  my  heart — and  then  fade  away  into  nothing — as  I 
shall. 

The  moon  is  silent ;  the  sea  is  ever  babbling,  but  man  can 
seldom  understand  the  words.  And  you,  the  third  who  knows 
the  secret,  will  not  tell  it  ;  and  so  it  is  hidden  forever  in 
darkness. 

AUGUST  21,  1826. 

I  have  quarreled  with  the  beautiful  lady  from  Zell.  She 
deliberately  tries  to  provoke  me  on  all  occasions.  It  all  comes 
from  some  mischievous  gossip.  Yet  I  am  still  bewitched  by 
her.  I  am  filled  with  anger  and  delight  when  I  hear  her 
voice — a  devilish  sensation.  I  see  a  great  deal  of  Prince 
Kossolowski,  a  man  of  great  ability.  Farewell. 

A   GREETING    TO    THE   SEA. 

Thalatta  !     Thalatta  ! 
A  greeting  to  thee,  thou  eternal  sea  ! 
A  greeting  to  thee  ten  thousand  times 
From  a  joyous  heart, 
As  once  thou  wast  greeted 
By  ten  thousand  Grecian  hearts, 
Fighting  bad  fortune,  longing  for  home, 
World-renowned  Grecian  hearts. 

The  billows  were  rocking, 
Rocking  and  roaring  ; 
The  sun  poured  down  joyously, 
Rosy  rays  dancing  ; 
The  sea-gulls  affrighted 
Flew  off,  loud  screaming  ; 


"Tbatatta. "  151 

There  was  stamping  of  horses,  and  clashing  of  shields  ; 
And  widely  resounded  a  shout  as  of  triumph, 
"  Thalatta  !     Thalatta  !  " 

A  greeting  to  thee,  thou  eternal  sea  ! 
Like  the  speech  of  my  home  is  the  roar  of  thy  waters. 
Like  dreams  of  my  childhood,  I  see  the  light  glancing 
Over  thy  heaving  wavy  domain. 
And  olden  time  memories  tell  me  again 
Of  all  the  precious  and  wonderful  toys, 
Glittering  presents  like  those  of  Christmas, 
Wonderful  trees  all  of  red  coral, 
Goldfish  and  pearls  and  bright  colored  mussels, 
Which  thou  holdest  fast  in  secret, 
Down  in  thy  shining  crystal  house. 

Oh,  how  have  I  languished  in  foreign  deserts  ! 
Like  unto  a  faded  flower 
In  the  tin  box  of  a  botanist  prisoned, 
Long  lay  my  heart  in  thy  breast. 
It  is  as  if  I  had  sat  all  winter, 
A  sick  man  in  the  dark  sick-chamber  ; 
And  now  I  come  forth  in  a  moment. 
Blinding,  comes  streaming  upon  me 
The  emerald  springtime,  awaked  by  the  sunshine  ; 
Trees  of  blossoms  white  are  rustling, 
And  the  tender  flowers  look  in  my  face 
With  bright  and  sweet-scented  eyes  ; 

There  is  sweetness  and  humming  and  breathing  and  laughter ; 
And  in  the  blue  heaven  the  birds  are  all  singing — 
Thalatta  !     Thalatta ! 

Thou  heart,  ever  bold  in  retreat  ! 
How  oft,  how  bitterly  oft 
Stabbed  by  barbarian  women  from  the  North  ! 
From  their  great  conquering  eyes 
They  launched  the  burning  arrows  ; 
With  wily  polished  phrases 
They  threatened  to  pierce  through  my  bosom  ; 
With  cuneiform  notes  they  battered 
My  poor  bewildered  brain. 
Vainly  I  held  up  my  shield,  opposing  ; 


The  arrows  whistled,  the  blows  came  crashing  ; 

And  by  the  northern  barbarian  women 

I  was  pressed  down  to  the  sea.     And  with  a  free  breath  I  greet 

the  sea, 

The  dear,  protecting  sea. 
Thalatta  !  Thalatta  ! 


SHIPWRECKED. 

Hope  and  love  !     All  has  been  shattered  ; 

And  I  myself,  like  a  dead  body 

Cast  forth  by  the  moaning  sea, 

I  lie  upon  the  strand. 

The  bald  and  barren  strand. 

Before  me  heaves  the  watery  waste  ; 

Behind  me  nought  but  care  and  woe  ; 

And  over  me  the  clouds  are  drifting, 

The  shapeless,  gray  daughters  of  the  wind, 

Who  from  the  sea,  in  misty  pails, 

Draw  the  water, 

And  with  labor  drag  it,  drag  it, 

And  pour  it  again  in  the  sea — 

A  sad  and  long  enduring  labor, 

And  useless  as  the  life  I  lead. 

The  waves  are  murmuring,  the  gulls  screaming. 
Old  recollections  o'er  me  are  breathed — 
Visions  forgotten,  pictures  long  vanished, 
Terribly  sweet,  start  forth  again. 

There  lives  in  the  North  a  woman, 

A  woman  royally  fair. 

Her  slender,  cypress-like  form 

Is  wrapped  in  a  white  and  wanton  robe ; 

Her  wealth  of  dusky  hair, 

Like  a  blessed  night, 

From  her  braid-crowned  head  overflowing, 

Curls  as  sweet  as  a  dream 

Round  her  sweet  and  pallid  features. 

From  out  her  sweet  and  pallid  features, 

Large  and  commanding,  her  eye  looks  forth 

Like  a  coal-black  sun. 


Shipwrecked.  153 


Oh,  thou  coal-black  sun,  how  oft, 

Enchantingly  oft,  drank  I  from  thee 

Fierce  flames  of  inspiration, 

And  stood,  and  reeled,  drunk  with  fire — 

Then  swept  a  smile  of  dove-like  mildness 

Round  the  high-curled,  haughty  lips  ; 

And  the  high -curled,  haughty  lips 

Breathed  forth  words  tender  as  moonlight 

And  sweet  as  is  the  scent  of  roses — 

And  my  soul  sprang  up  on  high, 

And  flew,  like  an  eagle,  aloft  unto  heaven. 

Be  still,  ye  waves  and  ye  gulls ! 
Silenced  forever  are  joy  and  hoping, 
Hoping  and  love  !     And  here  I  lie, 
A  desolate,  shipwrecked  man, 
And  bury  my  burning  face 
In  the  dewy  sand. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
mew  Struggles. 

LUNEBURG,  October  6,  1826. 
To  Friederich  Merckel  : 

You  will  have  heard  from  Campe  how  things  have  gone 
since  my  return  hither.  The  bad  fevers  frightened  me  off 
from  traveling  to  Friesland  and  Holland  ;  but  the  journey  is 
not  given  up  for  all  that.  I  shall  go  from  Hamburg  by  steamer 
direct  to  Amsterdam.  Nevertheless,  I  will  describe  my  last 
journey.  The  truth  is,  it  is  all  the  same  what  I  describe ;  it 
is  all  God's  world,  and  worth  observing,  and  what  I  do  not  see 
in  things  I  put  into  them.  Unhappily,  I  am  still  troubled 
with  headaches,  though  the  bathing  was  astonishingly  beneficial 
to  me.  I  have  already  written  eight  great  sea  pictures  here, 
mighty  original — perhaps  not  of  the  highest  worth,  but  still 
worth  notice,  and  I  am  sure  they  will  attract  notice.  If  my 
health  will  only  get  somewhat  better,  the  second  part  of  the 
"  Pictures  of  Travel"  will  be  the  most  wonderful  and  interest- 
ing book  that  has  appeared  in  these  times.  I  am  in  no  hurry. 
Liineburg  was  not  built  in  a  day — and  Llineburg  is  far  from 
being  Rome.  Have  you  heard  whether  the  black  gallows  bird 
has  been  telling  any  more  lies  about  me?*  I  should  be 
specially  glad  to  know  for  certain  to  whom  he  has  uttered 
threats  of  giving  me  a  beating.  It  is  important  to  me  from 
the  consequences.  Think  of  this.  N.  B.  I  do  not  often  under- 
line. I  am  not  at  ease  and  things  go  slowly.  Christiani  talked 
with  a  traveler  who  has  been  all  over  Germany,  and  heard  my 
"  Pictures  of  Travel  "  talked  about  everywhere.  God  !  I  must 
make  the  second  part  infinitely  better,  and  I  will.  I  see  a 
deal  of  Christiani  here,  as  usual  ;  he  suits  me  best  of  all  my 
friends. 

LUNEBURG,  October  14,  1826. 
To  Moses  Moser : 

I  have  been  suffering  a  great  deal  lately,  and  only  now  fee 
capable  of  thinking  quietly  and  doing  anything.     In  January 

*  A  Hamburg  broker  named  Friedlander. 
154 


Letters.  155 

I  shall  be  in  Hamburg  again  for  a  little  while  ;  and  about 
Easter  the  second  part  of  the  "Pictures  of  Travel"  will  be 
printed.  This  part  will  be  an  extraordinary  book,  and  make  a 
great  noise.  I  must  do  something  strong.  The  second  portion 
of  the  "  North  Sea,"  which  will  open  this  second  volume,  is  far 
more  original  and  bold  than  the  first  portion,  and  will  certainly 
please  you.  I  have  taken  quite  a  new  track,  to  the  danger  of 
my  life.  In  an  autobiographical  fragment  I  have  attempted 
some  frank,  pure  humor.  Till  now  1  have  shown  only  wit, 
irony,  and  extravagance,  but  never  before  real  genial  humor. 
The  second  volume  will  also  contain  a  series  of  letters  from  a 
voyager  on  the  North  Sea  in  which  I  speak  "  of  all  things  and 
some  others."  Won't  you  send  me  some  new  ideas  for  this  ? 
I  can  use  anything.  Fragmentary  conclusions  on  the  state  of 
learning  in  Berlin,  or  Germany,  or  Europe — who  could  handle 
these  more  lightly  than  you?  And  who  could  weave  them  in 
better  than  I  ?  Hegel,  Sanskrit,  Dr.  Cans,  the  doctrine  of 
symbols,  history — what  rich  themes  !  .  .  . 

You  will  have  heard  that  the  black  gallows  bird  of  Hamburg 
has  gone  about  everywhere  telling  the  lie  that  he  gave  me  a 
beating.  The  hog  barely  touched  me  in  the  street — a  fellow  I 
had  never  spoken  to  in  my  life.  The  scamp,  when  I  had  him 
summoned  before  the  police,  denied  the  attack — (he  merely 
seized  my  coat  tail,  and  was  dragged  away  by  the  crowd  of 
brokers),  denied  any  assault  or  attempt  at  one.  .  . 


LUNEBURG,  October  14,  1826. 
To  Karl  Immermann  : 

Something  which  no  man  knows  of,  and  which  I  tell  only  to 
you,  and  which  you  must  not  repeat  to  a  soul,  is  my  plan,  my 
settled  plan,  to  leave  Germany  forever,  after  spending  some 
time  this  winter  in  Hamburg,  where  I  shall  print  the  second 
part  of  the  "  Pictures  of  Travel." 

From  there  I 'go  by  sea  to  Amsterdam,  and  thence  to  Paris. 


LUNEBURG,  January  10,  1827. 
To  Friedrich  Merckel: 

I  have  been  horribly  hard  at  work  here.  The  damned 
copying  is  the  worst  part.  I  shall  soon  be  able  to  send  you 
the  splendidest  part  of  my  book,  fairly  copied  out.  You  will 
see  that  le  petit  homme  vit  encore.  The  book  will  make  a  great 


156  &£ew  Struggles. 

noise — not  from  any  private  scandal,  but  from  what  it  contains 
of  interest  to  the  whole  world.  Napoleon  and  the  French 
Revolution  are  drawn  as  large  as  life.  Do  not  say  a  word 
about  it  to  anyone.  I  hardly  dare  to  let  Campe  know  the 
contents  as  yet.  It  must  be  sent  off  before  a  syllable  of  it 
gets  known. 


CHAPTER  V. 
Zcm&on. 

MEN  are  wonderful  animals  !  At  home  we  grumble  ;  every 
piece  of  stupidity  or  inconvenience  provokes  us,  and  we  long 
like  children  to  go  out  into  the  wide  world.  But  when  we  get 
into  the  wide  world  we  find  it  too  wide,  and  often  sigh  in 
secret  for  the  narrow  stupidity  and  inconvenience  of  home. 
We  would  gladly  be  sitting  once  more  in  the  old  familiar  room, 
and  build  ourselves  a  house  behind  the  stove,  if  it  were  possible, 
and  sit  snugly  in  it,  reading  the  German  Intelligencer.  So 
it  was  on  my  trip  to  England.  I  had  hardly  lost  sight  of  the 
German  coast,  when  there  sprung  up  within  me  a  curious  regret 
of  the  Teutonic  nightcaps  and  the  forests  of  periwigs  which  I 
had  left  behind  with  disgust ;  and  when  the  fatherland  was 
lost  to  my  eyes  I  found  it  again  in  my  heart. 


I  have  seen  the  most  remarkable  thing  that  the  world  can 
show  to  an  astonished  mind  ;  I  have  seen  it,  and  am  still  full 
of  astonishment.  Before  my  mind  still  rises  that  stony  forest  of 
houses,  with  the  tumultuous  stream  of  living  men's  faces,  with 
their  various  passions,  with  their  terrible  greed  of  love,  of 
hunger,  and  of  hate.  I  mean  London. 

Send  a  philosopher  to  London,  but  for  Heaven's  sake  not  a 
poet  !  Send  a  philosopher,  and  plant  him  in  a  corner  of 
Cheapside ;  he  will  learn  more  here  than  from  all  the  books 
sold  at  the  last  Leipsic  Fair.  As  the  human  waves  roar  around 
him  a  sea  of  new  thoughts  will  rise  before  him,  and  the  eternal 
spirit  that  sweeps  along  will  breathe  upon  him  ;  all  the  hidden 
secrets  of  social  order  will  reveal  themselves  to  him  ;  he  will 
hear  the  beating  pulse  of  the  world  and  see  it  with  his  eyes — 
for  as  London  is  the  right  hand  of  the  world — the  active,  strong 
right  hand — this  street,  leading  from  the  Exchange  to  Downing 
Street,  may  be  looked  upon  as  the  pulse  of  the  world. 

*S7 


158  London. 

But  send  no  poet  to  London  !  The  cruel  earnest  of  all 
things,  the  colossal  uniformity,  the  machine-like  movement, 
the  sadness  of  even  pleasure, — this  overgrown  London  represses 
all  fancy  and  wounds  the  heart.  And  if  you  persist  in  sending 
a  German  poet  hither,  a  dreamer  who  stops  to  stare  at  each 
thing  that  comes  along,  a  sturdy  beggar  woman  or  the  bright 
window  of  a  goldsmith's  shop — oh,  he  will  find  himself  in  a  sad 
case,  and  be  thrust  aside  on  every  hand,  and  perhaps  knocked 
over  with  a  gentle  God  damn  ! 

I  had  determined  not  to  be  astonished  at  the  grandeur  of 
London  that  I  had  heard  so  much  about.  But  I  was  like  the 
schoolboy  who  determined  not  to  feel  the  flogging  he  was  to 
get.  The  fact  was,  he  expected  the  usual  cuts  with  the  usual 
stick  over  the  back,  as  usual,  and  instead  got  blows  of  a  new 
sort,  in  a  new  place,  with  a  small  rattan.  I  expected  great 
palaces,  and  saw  only  a  mass  of  small  houses.  But  their  very 
monotony  and  countless  numbers  impressed  me  profoundly. 


LONDON,  April  23,  1827. 
Ta  Friedrich  Merckel  : 

It  is  snowing  outside,  and  there  is  no  fire  in  my  room — so  a 
cold  letter.  Cross  and  ill  besides.  Seen  and  heard  enough 
already,  but  no  clear  view  as  yet.  London  has  exceeded  all  my 
expectations  in  its  size ;  but  I  feel  lost.  As  yet  I  have  made 
few  visits.  I  have  not  yet  seen  your  friends,  and  the  theater 
has  been  thus  far  my  great  resource.  I  shall  stay  in  London 
up  to  the  middle  of  June  at  the  latest,  and  then  go  to  some 
English  bathing  place.  I  need  it.  Life  is  terribly  dear  here; 
so  far  I  have  spent  more  than  a  guinea  a  day.  I  had  to  pay  a 
pound  and  a  half  on  the  steamer  for  food  and  fees  ;  had  to 
pay  almost  a  pound  duty  on  my  few  books,  etc.  Books  them- 
selves are  ruinously  dear  here.  Nothing  but  clouds,  coal 
smoke,  porter,  and  Canning.  How  shall  I  get  along  in  such  a 
world  ?  In  spite  of  my  best  efforts  I  shall  never  get  over 
making  blunders — that  is,  speaking  my  mind.  I  am  curious 
to  learn  from  you  if  none  of  the  powers  that  be  have  taken  my 
book  ill.  After  all,  one  likes  to  sit  quietly  by  the  fire  at  home, 
reading  the  German  Intelligencer  Q\  the  Halle  Literary  Journal, 
and  eating  bread  and  butter.  It  is  so  terribly  damp  and  dis- 
agreeable here,  and  nobody  understands  one  ;  not  a  soul 
understands  German. 


First  Impressions.  159 

LONDON,  June  i,  1827. 

Do  not,  for  your  life,  let  Campe  know  of  Cotta's  offer  ;  you 
have  no  right  to,  either.  I  would  not,  for  my  life,  put  a  flea 
in  Campe's  ear.  It  would  be  of  no  use  now,  and  I  like  him 
too  much  to  worry  him  unnecessarily.  He  does  a  great  deal 
for  my  children,  and  I  am  grateful.  But  I  will  never  trust  to 
his  generosity  again.  With  the  forty  louis  which  our  friend 
sent  to  me  here  on  tick,  he  relieved  me  of  much  anxiety.  But 
he  has  never  had  any  real  confidence  in  me.  When  I  spoke 
to  him  about  some  sacrifices  I  made  for  my  last  book,  he 
treated  it  as  mere  talk  ;  and  so  when  I  told  him  that  Cotta 
long  ago  offered  me  brilliant  terms  for  my  essays  for  the  Morning 
Journal — in  short,  he  has  shown  no  confidence  in  me.  He 
shall  learn  to  know  me  by  my  works.  Oh  !  I  am  very  sad 
to-day.  Ill  and  incapable  of  any  sound  judgment.  And  I  have 
to  pay  in  gold  here  for  every  impression  that  I  gather.  Some 
days  I  spend  a  couple  of  guineas. 

LONDON,  June  9,  1827. 
To  Moses  Moser : 

Before  leaving  Hamburg  I  took  care  to  have  my  book  sent 
to  you.  You  see  by  it  what  I  have  thought,  felt,  and  suf- 
fered in  the  last  year.  I  think  "  Le  Grand  "  must  have  pleased 
you  ;  all  the  rest  of  the  book,  except  the  poems,  is  fodder  for 
the  herd,  who  swallow  it  with  good  appetite.  By  this  book  I 
have  made  for  myself  a  great  following  and  great  popularity 
in  Germany.  If  I  am  well  I  can  do  a  great  deal  more  ;  my 
voice  reaches  far  now.  You  shall  often  hear  it  thundering 
against  the  jailers  of  thought  and  oppressors  of  sacred  rights. 
I  shall  attain  the  post  of  a  very  extraordinary  professorship  in 
the  university  of  higher  culture. 

You  can  readily  imagine  how  I  live  here,  as  you  know  me 
and  England.  I  am  seeing  and  learning  a  great  deal.  In  a 
few  days  I  shall  go  to  an  English  watering  place.  The  great 
object  of  my  journey  was  to  leave  Hamburg.  I  hope  to  have 
strength  enough  never  to  go  back.  I  do  not  feel  much  drawn 
to  Berlin  either.  A  shallow  life,  clever  egotism,  clever  sand. 
Everything  here  is  too  dear  and  too  widely  scattered.  Much 
that  is  attractive — Parliament,  Westminster  Abbey,  English 
tragedy,  handsome  women.  If  I  get  out  of  England  alive  it 
will  not  be  the  women's  fault ;  they  do  their  best.  Present 
English  literature  pitiful,  more  pitiful  than  ours — which  is  say- 
ing much. 


160  London. 

RAMSGATE,  July  28,  1827. 
To  f.  JT.  Detmold : 

Leave  Hoffmann  and  his  ghosts,  which  are  the  more  frightful 
because  they  walk  in  the  market  place  in  broad  day,  and  behave 
like  all  of  us.  It  is  I,  Heine,  who  gives  you  this  piece  of 
advice.  And  I  have  given  you  an  example  how  a  man  can 
pull  himself  out  of  the  depths  by  his  own  hair.  I  am  high  up 
— namely,  on  the  east  cliff,  at  Ramsgate,  sitting  in  a  high 
balcony  ;  and  as  I  write  I  look  down  on  the  beautiful  wide 
sea,  whose  waves  come  climbing  up  the  cliffs,  and  murmuring 
enchanting  music  to  my  heart.  I  tell  you  this,  that  you  may 
know  my  good  counsel  comes  to  you  from  a  good  and  healthy 
elevation.  I  have  an  idea  of  leaving  England,  where  I  have 
been  since  April  ;  of  running  through  Brabant  and  Holland, 
and  coming  back  to  Germany  after  some  months. 


A  huge  chalk  cliff,  like  the  fair,  white  bosom  of  a  woman, 
rises  above  the  sea.  The  beloved  sea  presses  up  to  it,  plays 
round  it  and  sprinkles  it  in  its  mirth,  throwing  its  waves  round 
it  like  mighty  arms.  On  the  white  cliff  stands  a  high  town; 
and  there,  in  a  high  balcony,  a  lovely  woman  is  sitting,  and 
playing  merrily  on  the  Spanish  guitar. 

Beneath  the  balcony  stands  a  German  poet,  and  as  the  sweet 
sounds  float  down  to  him  his  soul  plays  an  involuntary  accom- 
paniment, and  the  words  ring  out : 

"  Oh,  were  I  but  the  raging  sea, 
And  thou  the  cliff  above." 

But  our  German  poet  did  not  sing  the  words,  but  only  thought 
them.  In  the  first  place,  he  had  no  voice  ;  and.  in  the  second, 
he  was  too  shy. 

That  very  evening,  when  he  took  the  beautiful  woman  to 
walk  on  the  sands,  he  had  not  a  word  to  say  for  himself. 

The  waves  dashed  wildly  on  the  white  rocky  bosom,  and  the 
moon  threw  across  the  water  a  long  streak  of  light,  like  a 
golden  bridge  to  the  promised  land. 


It  is  now  eight  years  since  I  went  to  London,  to  learn  the 
language  and  the  people.     The  devil  take  the  people  and  their 


English  {Manners. 


language  too  !  They  take  a  dozen  one-syllable  words  in  their 
jaws,  chew  them,  gnash  their  teeth  over  them,  and  then  spit 
them  out,  and  call  that  speaking.  Luckily  they  are  natu- 
rally silent  ;  and  though  they  are  always  staring  at  us  with  open 
mouths,  they  spare  us  much  conversation.  Woe  be  unto  us, 
though,  if  we  fall  into  the  clutches  of  a  son  of  Albion  who  has 
made  the  grand  tour,  and  learned  French  on  the  Continent. 
He  improves  the  opportunity  of  using  his  acquired  knowledge 
of  tongues,  and  overwhelms  us  with  questions  on  every  possi- 
ble subject ;  hardly  have  you  answered  one  question  when 
out  comes  another,  about  your  age,  or  country,  or  how  long 
you  mean  to  remain ;  and  with  this  incessant  interrogatory  he 
thinks  he  is  entertaining  you  most  agreeably.  One  of  my 
friends  in  Paris  may  be  right  in  thinking  the  English  learn  to 
speak  French  at  the  Passport  Bureau.  Their  conversation  is 
most  improving  at  table,  when  they  carve  their  huge  joints  of 
roast  beef,  and  ask  with  a  solemn  air  what  piece  we  will  take, 
rare  or  well  done,  middle  or  outside,  fat  or  lean.  Roast  beef 
and  roast  mutton  are  the  only  good  things  they  have.  Heaven 
preserve  all  Christians  from  their  sauces,  consisting  of  one- 
third  flour  and  two-thirds  butter  ;  or,  for  a  change,  one-third 
butter  and  two-thirds  flour.  Heaven  preserve  us  from  their 
simple  vegetables  also,  which  they  put  upon  the  table  cooked 
in  water,  just  as  God  made  them.  Worse  even  than  the  Eng- 
lishmen's food  are  their  toasts  and  obligatory  speeches,  when 
the  cloth  is  drawn  and  the  ladies  have  left  the  table  and  any 
number  of  bottles  of  port  have  been  brought  to  supply  their 
places — for  they  think  this  is  the  best  consolation  for  the 
absence  of  the  fair  sex.  I  say  the  fair  sex,  and  Englishwomen 
deserve  the  name.  They  are  handsome,  fair,  and  slender. 
But  the  too  great  space  between  nose  and  mouth,  which  is  as 
common  with  them  as  with  Englishmen,  has  often  spoiled  the 
prettiest  face  for  me. 

Certainly  when  one  meets  an  Englishman  in  a  foreign 
country  his  deficiencies  are  made  very  evident  by  contrast. 
They  are  the  gods  of  tedium,  rushing  through  all  countries  in 
their  highly  varnished  carriages  by  extra  post,  and  leaving 
behind  them  a  dusty  cloud  of  sadness.  Add  to  this  their 
curiosity  devoid  of  interest,  overdressed  coarseness,  impudent 
shyness,  angular  selfishness,  and  barren  delight  in  all  sad  spec- 
tacles. Here,  for  these  three  weeks,  an  Englishman  has  stood 
for  hours  every  day,  in  the  Piazza  del  Gran  Duca,  gaping  with 
open  mouth  at  a  charlatan  on  horseback  who  pulls  out  people's 


1 62  London. 

teeth.  Possibly  this  spectacle  may  indemnify  the  noble  son  of 
Albion  for  the  executions  he  is  missing  in  his  native  land. 
For,  next  to  prize  fights  and  cockfights,  no  sight  is  so  dear  to 
a  Briton  as  the  agony  of  a  poor  devil  who  has  stolen  a  sheep 
or  imitated  a  signature,  and  is  exposed  for  an  hour  in  front  of 
the  Old  Bailey,  with  a  rope  round  his  neck,  before  being  swung 
into  eternity.  It  is  no  exaggeration  when  I  say  that  sheep 
stealing  and  forgery  are  punished,  in  that  hateful,  barbarous 
land,  exactly  like  the  most  horrible  crimes,  parricide  or  incest. 
I  myself,  by  an  unhappy  chance,  saw  a  man  hanged  in  London 
for  stealing  a  sheep,  and  have  lost  my  taste  for  roast  mutton 
ever  since  ;  the  fat  always  reminds  me  of  the  poor  sinner's 
white  cap.  By  his  side  they  hung  an  Irishman,  who  had 
imitated  a  rich  banker's  signature  ;  and  I  can  still  see  the 
simple  terror  of  the  poor  Paddy,  who  could  not  understand 
in  court  that  he  could  be  so  hardly  punished  for  imitating 
handwriting  when  he  would  have  allowed  all  the  world  to 
imitate  his. 

I  must  confess  that  if  nothing  in  England  pleased  me,  men 
or  food,  it  was  partly  my  own  fault.  I  brought  over  with  me 
from  home  a  good  store  of  ill  humor,  and  expected  to  be 
cheered  up  among  a  people  who  can  find  a  cure  for  their  dull- 
ness only  in  the  whirl  of  politics  and  business.  Machinery, 
which  has  been  carried  to  the  highest  pitch  of  perfection  and 
has  thrown  so  many  people  out  of  employment,  gives  me  an 
uncomfortable  feeling.  These  ingenious  machines,  with  their 
wheels,  bars,  cylinders,  and  thousands  of  little  hooks,  pins,  and 
teeth,  working  as  if  in  a  passion,  filled  me  with  horror.  The 
positive,  measured,  punctual  side  of  English  life  provoked 
me,  and  if  their  machines  seem  people,  their  people  seem 
machines. 

You  can  easily  imagine  that  my  dissatisfaction  with  the 
country  grew  stronger  every  day.  But  nothing  ever  equaled 
the  dark  mood  that  came  over  me  once  as  I  stood  on  Waterloo 
Bridge  toward  evening  and  looked  down  into  the  Thames.  I 
thought  I  saw  my  own  soul  reflected  in  the  water,  looking  up 
at  me  with  all  its  scars.  All  sorts  of  sad  stories  came  into  my 
head.  I  thought  of  the  rose  that  was  watered  with  vinegar 
till  it  lost  its  sweet  odor  and  drooped.  I  thought  of  the  butter- 
fly that  had  lost  its  way  and  was  found  by  a  naturalist  fluttering 
among  the  icy  walls  of  Mont  Blanc.  I  thought  of  the  tame 
ape  that  had  grown  so  familiar  with  men  that  she  played  and 
ate  with  them  ;  but  at  table  one  day  she  saw  her  own  little  ape 


Canning.  163 

all  roasted,  and,  snatching  it  away,  she  fled  to  the  woods  and 
was  never  seen  again  by  her  human  friends.  Oh,  I  was  so  sad 
that  the  hot  tears  sprang  to  my  eyes.  They  fell  into  the 
Thames  and  rolled  out  into  the  great  sea,  which  has  swallowed 
up  so  many  tears  of  men  and  never  known  it. 


Those  were  dark  days  for  Germany ;  nothing  but  owls, 
censors'  edicts,  prison  damp,  despairing  novels,  guard  mount- 
ing, cant,  and  folly  ;  and  when  the  light  of  Canning's  words 
reached  us  the  few  hearts  that  still  hoped  rejoiced.  As  for 
the  writer,  he  left  a  kiss  with  all  he  loved  best,  got  aboard  ship, 
and  went  to  London  to  see  and  hear  Canning.  I  sat  for  days 
in  the  gallery  of  St.  Stephen's  Chapel,  lived  on  his  glances,  and 
drank  in  the  words  that  fell  from  his  lips  while  my  heart  ran 
over  with  joy.  He  was  of  medium  height — a  handsome  man, 
of  noble  presence,  with  an  open  countenance,  a  very  high  fore- 
head inclining  to  baldness,  pleasant,  well-arched  lips,  and  mild, 
persuasive  eyes ;  his  motions  were  quick,  and  from  time  to 
time  he  struck  the  tin  box  standing  on  the  table  in  front  of 
him  ;  but  even  when  excited  he  was  always  decorous,  grace- 
ful, and  "gentlemanlike." 

Canning  was  one  of  the  great  orators  of  his  time.  It  was 
sometimes  objected  that  his  language  was  too  ornate  and 
flowery.  The  reproach  could,  however,  be  applied  to  him  only 
in  his  earlier  days,  when  his  subordinate  position  forbade  him 
to  express  an  individual  opinion,  and  confined  him  chiefly  to 
the  graces  and  ornaments  of  oratory  and  brilliant  sallies  of 
wit.  His  speech  was  at  that  time  rather  the  scabbard  that  hid 
the  sword  than  the  blade  itself — and  a  rich  scabbard  it  was, 
embroidered  with  gold  and  decked  with  precious  jewels.  Later 
he  drew  forth  a  simple,  unadorned  blade,  of  even  greater  bril- 
liancy, and  keen  and  searching  enough.  I  can  never  forget 
those  days,  nor  the  hours  in  which  I  listened  to  George  Can- 
ning speaking  of  the  rights  of  the  people,  and  heard  the  words 
of  emancipation  that  rolled  like  thunder  from  heaven  over  the 
whole  earth,  waking  a  cheering  echo  in  the  hut  of  the  Mexican 
and  the  Hindoo.  Well  might  Canning  have  exclaimed,  "That 
is  my  thunder  !  "  The  sweet,  full,  and  earnest  voice  came 
with  a  sad  force  from  that  breast  that  was  already  a  prey  to 
disease — the  last  clear,  distinct  tones  of  a  dying  man,  strong 
even  in  death.  His  mother  had  died  a  few  days  before,  and 


164  London. 

the  mourning  he  wore  added  to  the  impressiveness  of  his 
appearance.  I  can  see  him  now,  in  his  black  coat  and  black 
gloves.  As  he  spoke  he  glanced  at  these  ;  and  I  thought,  he 
is  thinking  of  his  dead  mother,  of  her  sufferings,  and  of  the 
sufferings  of  the  poor  starving  people  of  England,  and  these 
gloves  are  a  token  to  them  that  Canning  knows  their  woes  and 
will  redress  them.  In  the  excitement  of  speaking  he  tore  one 
of  them  off,  and  I  fairly  thought  he  would  fling  it  at  the  feet 
of  the  proud  aristocracy  of  England  as  the  gage  of  all  oppressed 
mankind. 

The  constant  memories  of  Shakespeare,  and  those  we  owe  to 
him,  struck  me  very  much  during  my  stay  in  England,  walking 
about  as  I  did,  like  a  curious  traveler,  from  morning  far  into 
the  night,  in  search  of  noteworthy  objects.  Every  lion  re- 
minded me  of  the  greater  lion,  Shakespeare.  All  the  spots  I 
visited  live  forever  in  his  historical  plays,  and  I  had  known 
them  from  my  youth.  Those  plays  are  known  in  that  country 
not  only  by  the  cultivated  but  by  all  the  people  ;  and  the 
stout  beefeater,  with  his  red  dress  and  red  face,  who  acts  as 
guide  in  the  Tower  and  shows  you  in  the  Middle  Tower  the 
dungeon  where  Richard  had  his  nephews,  the  young  princes, 
murdered,  refers  you  to  Shakespeare,  who  gives  the  details  of  the 
terrible  story.  The  verger  who  shows  you  through  Westminster 
Abbey  talks  about  Shakespeare,  in  whose  tragedies  the  dead 
kings  and  queens,  stretched  in  stone  effigies  on  their  sarcoph- 
agi, and  shown  for  one  and  sixpence,  play  such  fierce 
or  pitiful  parts.  He  himself,  the  statue  of  the  great  poet,  is 
there,  as  large  as  life,  an  imposing  figure,  with  a  thoughtful 
face,  a  roll  of  parchment  in  his  hands.  It  may  be  there  is  a 
spell  written  upon  it,  and  when,  at  midnight,  he  calls  with 
marble  lips  to  the  dead  who  rest  in  their  graves  near  by,  they 
come  forth  in  rusty  armor  and  faded  court  suits,  those  knights 
of  the  white  and  red  roses  ;  the  dames,  too,  rise  with  a  sigh 
from  their  last  resting  places,  and  you  might  hear  the  rattle  of 
arms,  and  laughter,  and  curses.  As  at  Drury  Lane,  where  I 
so  often  heard  Shakespeare's  tragedies,  and  where  Kean  shook 
my  soul  as  he  staggered  across  the  stage  : 

"  A  horse  !     A  horse  !     My  kingdom  for  a  horse  !  " 

I  should  write  the  whole  "  Guide  to  London  "  if  I  tried  to  put 
down  the  places  where  Shakespeare  was  brought  to  my  mind. 
This  was  especially  so  in  parliament,  not  because  it  is  the  same 


Edmund  Kean.  165 


Westminster  Hall  so  often  mentioned  in  his  plays,  but  because, 
while  I  listened  to  the  debates,  Shakespeare  was  often  mentioned, 
rather  in  the  character  of  a  historian  than  as  a  poet.  I  was 
surprised  to  find  that  in  England  Shakespeare  is  not  only 
honored  as  a  poet  but  quoted  as  a  historian  by  the  first  states- 
men in  parliament. 

As  you  know,  it  is  not  my  habit  to  use  fine  words  about  a 
player's  acting,  or,  as  the  polite  phrase  is,  the  artist's  rendering 
of  the  part.  But  Edmund  Kean,  of  whom  I  have  already 
spoken,  was  no  ordinary  hero  of  the  boards,  and  I  confess  that 
in  my  English  notebook  I  did  not  disdain  to  record  my  fugi- 
tive impressions  of  each  night  of  Kean's  performances  side  by 
side  with  the  daily  record  of  the  parliamentary  orator,  whose 
words  were  stirring  the  world.  Unfortunately  the  book,  like 
many  others  of  my  best  papers,  is  lost.  But  I  think  I  once  read 
out  to  you  something  about  the  performance  of  Shylock  by 
Kean.  The  Jew  of  Venice  was  the  first  heroic  part  I  saw  him 
act.  I  say  heroic,  for  he  did  not  play  it  as  a  broken  old  man, 
a  sort  of  Siva  of  hate,  as  our  Devrient  does,  but  made  him  a 
hero.  And  so  he  remains  in  my  memory,  clothed  in  a  black 
silk  robe,  without  sleeves,  and  reaching  only  to  the  knees, 
making  the  under  garment  of  blood  red,  which  fell  to  his 
feet,  the  brighter  by  contrast.  A  black  hat,  with  a  wide 
brim  turned  up  on  both  sides,  and  a  high  crown  with  a  red 
band,  was  upon  his  head  ;  his  hair  and  beard,  long  and  jet 
black,  fell  like  a  shaggy  frame  about  his  healthy,  high-colored 
face,  from  which  two  shining  eyes  shot  forth  anxious  glances. 
In  his  right  hand  he  held  a  stick,  as  a  weapon  rather  than  as  a 
support.  He  leaned  his  left  elbow  upon  it  and  rested  in  his 
left  hand  his  black  head  filled  with  yet  blacker  thoughts,  as  he 
explained  to  Bassanio  what  he  meant  by  the  still  current 
phrase  "  a  good  man."  While  repeating  the  parable  of  Father 
Jacob  and  Laban's  sheep  he  seemed  to  get  confused,  and  broke 
off  suddenly  with  the  words,  "Aye,  he  was  the  third  ";  then 
came  a  long  pause,  while  he  was  thinking  what  he  had  meant 
to  say,  and  then,  suddenly,  as  if  he  had  recovered  the  thread 
of  the  story,  he  went  on,  "  No,  not  take  interest,"  so  that  it 
sounded,  not  like  a  part  committed  to  memory,  but  a  story 
slowly  thought  out.  At  the  end  of  the  tale  he  smiled,  like  an 
author  pleased  at  his  own  conclusion. 

But  it  is  useless.  No  description  can  convey  to  you  a  clear 
idea  of  Edmund  Kean's  manner.  His  declamation,  his  broken 
delivery,  was  studied  successfully  by  others — as  parrots  may 


1 66  London. 

imitate  the  scream  of  the  eagle,  the  monarch  of  the  air.  But 
the  eagle  eye,  fixing  upon  the  sun  a  glance  as  steady  as  its  own 
rays,  Kean's  eye,  with  its  magical  gleam — no  one  has  equaled 
that.  Only  in  the  eye  of  Frederic  Lemaitre,  and  while  he  was 
acting  Kean,  have  I  ever  seen  anything  to  be  compared  with 
the  look  of  the  real  Kean. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
"3Boofc  of  Songs." 

LUNEBURG,  November  16,  1826. 
To  Friedrich  Merckel : 

Several  of  my  friends  are  urging  me  to  bring  out  a  collection 
of  my  poems,  chronologically  arranged  and  carefully  selected  ; 
and  think  it  will  be  as  popular  as  those  of  Biirgher,  Goethe, 
Uhland,  etc.  Varnhagen  has  laid  down  many  rules  about  it 
for  me.  I  should  take  in  a  part  of  my  first  poems  ;  I  have  a 
good  right  to,  as  Maurer  has  not  paid  me  one  pfennig,  on  various 
dolorous  pretexts.  I  shall  take  almost  all  the  "  Intermezzo  " — 
Dummler  cannot  object  to  it — and  then  the  later  poems,  if 
Campe,  from  whom  I  would  not  ask  a  shilling  as  author's 
fees,  will  bring  out  the  book,  and  does  not  fear  it  may  injure 
the  "  Pictures  of  Travel."  As  I  say,  I  shall  not  ask  a  shilling 
for  the  book,  a  low  price  and  other  elements  of  popularity 
being  my  great  object.  I  should  delight  to  show  Maurer  and 
Dummler  that  I  can  shift  for  myself.  This  will  be  my  prin- 
cipal work,  and  give  a  psychological  portrait  of  me — the  sad- 
earnest  youthful  poems,  the  "  Intermezzo,"  with  the  "  Return 
Home,"  the  warm  and  glowing  poems — for  example,  those  from 
the  "  Harzreise,"  and  some  new  ones — and  finally,  a  complete 
collection  of  the  colossal  epigrams.  Find  out  from  Campe  if 
the  plan  pleases  him,  and  if  he  can  promise  a  sale  for  such  a 
book,  which  would  not  be  an  ordinary  collection  of  poems.  If 
not  I  will  put  the  fine  plan  out  of  my  mind.  I  call  it  fine, 
because  I  have  many  fine  notions  about  it,  knowing  the  public 
and  how  to  suit  the  taste  of  the  day. 

LUNEBURG,  October  30,  1827. 
To  Moses  Moser : 

The  "  Book  of  Songs "  is  only  a  complete  edition  of  my 
poems  already  published.  .  .  It  is  beautifully  got  up,  and, 
like  a  harmless  merchantman,  will  sail  quietly  into  the  sea  of 
oblivion  under  the  convoy  of  the  second  volume  of  the  "  Reise- 

167 


1 68  The  ff  'Book  of  Songs. ' ' 

bilder."     The  last  is  a  man  of  war,  that,  carrying  too  many 
guns,  has  terribly  displeased  the  world. 


It  is  not  without  embarrassment  that  I  offer  a  new  edition  of 
this  book  to  the  reading  world.  It  has  cost  me  a  great  effort, 
and  it  was  almost  a  whole  year  before  I  could  make  up  my 
mind  to  a  hasty  revision  of  it.  The  sight  of  it  revived  all  the 
troubles  that  oppressed  my  soul  on  the  first  publication  of  it, 
ten  years  since.  Only  a  poet  or  poetaster,  who  has  seen  his 
first  poems  in  print,  will  understand  this.  First  poems  !  They 
should  be  written  on  old  scraps  of  paper,  a  withered  flower 
occasionally  lying  between  the  leaves,  or  a  lock  of  fair  hair,  or  a 
faded  bit  of  ribbon — and  the  trace  of  a  tear  should  be  visible 
here  and  there.  But  first  poems  printed,  printed  black,  on 
horrible  smooth  paper,  have  lost  their  sweet  maiden  charm,  and 
give  the  author  a  shudder.  .  .  Yes,  it  is  ten  years  since  these 
poems  first  appeared  ;  and  I  now  give  them,  as  before,  in 
chronological  order — the  opening  ones  belonging  to  the  early 
years  when  the  Muse  printed  her  first  burning  kisses  on  my 
soul.  Alas  !  The  good  maid's  kisses  have  since  lost  their  fire 
and  freshness  !  The  ardors  of  our  honeymoon  have  grown 
cold  ;  but  the  tenderness  of  the  German  Muse  has  never  failed, 
and  in  my  saddest  hours  she  has  proved  all  love  and  truth  ! 
She  has  consoled  me  in  misery,  followed  me  in  exile,  cheered 
me  in  the  dark  hours  of  despondency,  and  never  failed  me  ;  and 
when  my  pulse  ran  low  she  came  to  my  assistance — this  kind 
maid,  the  German  Muse  ! 

I  offer  the  "  Book  of  Songs  "  to  the  public  with  diffidence,  and 
beg  its  indulgence.  My  political,  religious,  and  philosophical 
writings  may  perhaps  make  some  amends  for  the  weakness  of 
these  poems.  But  I  must  remark  that  my  poetical  writings 
spring  from  the  same  train  of  thought  as  those  political,  religious, 
and  philosophical  ones  ;  and  that,  if  the  latter  be  condemned, 
all  praise  must  be  denied  to  the  others. 

LOVE. 

'Tis  the  old  wood  of  fairy  lore, 

The  linden  blooms  are  sweet, 

The  moonbeams  with  their  wondrous  light 

Enchant  my  inmost  soul. 


"Love."  169 


I  wandered  on,  and  as  I  went 
A  sound  rang  out  on  high  : 
It  is  the  nightingale — she  sings 
Of  love  and  pains  of  love. 


She  sings  of  love  and  pains  of  love, 
She  sings  of  tears  and  laughter  ; 
She  exults  so  sadly,  she  sobs  so  gayly, 
Old  dreams  come  back  again. 

I  wandered  on,  and,  as  I  went, 
I  saw  before  me  stand 
In  an  open  space  a  noble  hall, 
With  towers  rising  high. 

The  windows  barred,  and  over  all 
A  mourning  stillness  hung — 
Silent,  as  death  itself  had  dwelt 
Within  those  empty  walls. 

Before  the  door  there  lay  a  sphinx, 
A  thing  of  love  and  terror — 
The  body  and  paws  of  a  lion  she  had, 
The  head  and  breasts  of  a  woman. 

A  woman  fair  !     Her  eager  eye 
Told  of  a  wild  desire  ! 
The  silent  lips  were  wreathed  about 
With  a  smile  of  mute  consent. 

The  nightingale  she  sang  so  sweet 
I  might  not  rule  my  heart — 
I  pressed  a  kiss  on  the  lovely  face — 
That  moment  I  was  lost. 

The  marble  form  was  stirred  with  life, 
The  stone  began  to  groan — 
She  drank  the  fire  of  my  kiss, 
As  one  who  pants  with  thirst. 


1 70  The  "  'Book  of  Songs. ' ' 

She  drank  until  my  breath  came  short, 
And  with  a  fierce  desire 
She  clasped  me  round — my  wretched  form 
Rending  with  lion  claws. 

Entrancing  agony,  delicious  pain  ! 
Torture  and  joy  alike  unmeasured  ! 
The  kiss  of  her  lips  was  rapture,  while 
I  was  torn  by  her  cruel  claws. 

The  nightingale  sang:  "O  fairest  sphinx  ! 
O  love  !  what  may  it  mean, 
That  thus  thou  minglest  mortal  pangs 
E'en  with  thy  keenest  joys  ! 

"  O  fairest  sphinx  !  come  read  to  me 
The  riddle  dark  and  strange  ! 
In  vain  have  1  the  answer  sought 
These  many  thousand  years." 

I  might  have  said  all  this  in  honest  prose.  But  when  we  read 
over  the  old  songs,  to  give  the  last  touches  to  a  new  version  of 
them,  we  unconsciously  yield  to  the  jingling  temptation  of 
rhyme  and  rhythm.  O  Phoebus  Apollo  !  If  the  verses  are  poor 
thou  wilt  forgive  me.  For  thou  art  an  all-wise  god,  and  knowest 
well  why  I  have  not  for  years  been  able  to  fit  my  words  to  tune- 
ful sound  and  measure.  Thou  knowest  why  the  flame,  which 
once  delighted  the  world  with  brilliant  fireworks,  suddenly  be- 
came a  far  more  serious  fire.  Thou  knowest  why  it  still  con- 
sumes my  heart  with  its  silent  heat.  Thou  understandest  me, 
great  and  beautiful  god  ;  for  thou  dost  sometimes  exchange  the 
golden  lyre  for  the  strong  bow  and  the  deadly  arrows.  Dost 
thou  remember  Marsyas,  whom  thou  flayedst  alive  ?  It  is  long 
since  that ;  and  there  is  need  of  some  such  an  example.  .  . 
Thou  smilest,  O  my  eternal  father  ! 

PARIS,  February  20,  1839. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
autumn  5ourneg0. 

NORDERNEY,  NORDERNEY,  NORDERNEY,  August  2O,  1827. 

To  Friedrich  Mcrckel : 

As  you  see,  I  am  once  more  in  Norderney.  I  heard  that 
people  here  were  very  angry  with  me,  meant  to  kill  me,  etc.;  so  I 
lost  no  time  in  coming  here.  "  It  shows  good  courage,"  some 
of  my  old  acquaintances  declared,  when  they  saw  I  had  ar- 
rived. I  do  not  think  I  need  any  courage  here  ;  to  come,  de- 
spising any  attack  that  was  to  be  feared — that  did  need  courage. 
So  I  may  boast  a  little.  England  has  ruined  me  from  a  financial 
point  of  view  ;  but  I  will  not  do  like  Walter  Scott,  and  write 
a  bad  but  profitable  book.  I  am  the  Knight  of  the  Holy 
Ghost.  I  had  great  fun  in  Holland,  but  hurried  on  here,  not 
to  lose  the  bathing  season.  I  shall  probably  be  here  four 
weeks. 


I  was  once  all  alone  with  the  schoolmaster  for  a  couple  of 
weeks  in  Langerog,  after  everyone  had  gone  away.  I  got  tired 
of  it  at  last.  I  had  sent  forward  my  heavy  luggage,  and  meant 
to  proceed  with  one  trunk  and  my  pack  over  Wangeroge, 
through  Oldenburg  to  Hamburg.  But  it  was  days  before  a 
boat  came.  I  made  for  the  first  that  appeared,  and  was  at 
last  on  board  ship.  Then  we  had  a  calm  ;  the  captain  could 
not  put  to  sea,  and  would  not  land.  So  we  lay  off  the  shore, 
until  I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  took  advantage  of  a  low 
tide  to  wade  all  the  way  to  the  shore  with  my  pack  on  my 
head.  I  was  once  more  alone  with  the  schoolmaster  in  Lan- 
gerog ;  then  they  carried  me  to  the  Siedels.  God,  what  a 
queer  life  it  was  !  If  I  had  tried  to  describe  it  all  in  verse  no 
one  would  have  understood  it,  for  want  of  knowing  something 
about  it.  It  really  seems  incredible  to  myself  when  I  think  of 
it  that,  with  my  pack  on  my  head  and  the  tide  rising  behind 
me,  I  walked  through  the  North  Sea. 

171 


1 7  2  Autumn  Journeys. 


HAMBURG,  October  19,  1827. 
To  Varnhagen  von  Ense  : 

After  receiving  Frau  von  Varnhagen's  responsum,  I  was 
about  to  set  off  to  come  to  you  ;  all  my  preparations  were 
made,  when  I  got  a  letter  from  Munich,  which  decided  me  to 
go  there  at  once.  They  have  wanted  me  to  come  for  some 
time,  and  now  they  offer  me  all  the  world.  I  shall  at  least 
find  rest  there,  and  that  is  now  my  first  consideration.  In 
January,  1828,  Political  Annals  will  appear  in  Munich, 
under  the  editorship  of  your  friend  Heine  and  Dr.  Lindner. 
This  will  give  people  the  first  hint  of  what  it  means  that  I  am 
in  Munich.  More  on  this  point  in  my  next.  I  have  undertaken 
this  editorship  feeling  sure  that  you  would  be  not  only  satisfied, 
but  delighted.  You  see  beforehand  what  it  may  lead  to.  I  am 
going  in  a  few  days  to  Munich,  and  will  write  you  on  my  way. 

The  third  volume  of  the  "  Reisebilder  "  will  appear — as  soon 
as  I  have  written  it.  I  am  still  young,  and  have  no  hungry 
wife  and  children — so  I  will  speak  out  freely.  Frau  von 
Varnhagen  will  be  pleased.  I  would  write  the  dear  friend  a 
letter  as  long  as  the  world,  as  rambling  and  unbearable  as  my 

own  life,  but I  am  going  this  morning  to  pay  a  visit  to  a 

lady  whom  I  have  not  seen  for  eleven  years,  and  with  whom 
people  say  I  was  once  in  love.  Her  name  is  Mme.  Fried- 
lander  of  Konigsberg — a  sort  of  cousin  of  mine.  Meanwhile 
I  met  yesterday  the  man  of  her  choice.  The  good  lady  has 
bestirred  herself,  and  arrived  yesterday,  just  on  the  day  when 
the  new  edition  was  published  of  my  "  Youthful  Sorrows  "  by 
Hoffman  &  Campe.  The  world  is  dull,  stupid,  and  uncomfort- 
able, and  smells  of  withered  violets. 

But  I  am  the  editor  of  Political  Annals ;  besides,  I  am 
persuaded  that  asses,  when  they  mean  to  abuse  one  another, 
call  each  other  "  men." 

If  thine  eye  offend  thee,  cast  it  from  thee  ;  if  thy  right  hand 
offend  thee,  hew  it  off  ;  if  thy  tongue  offend  thee,  cut  it  out. 
In  New  Bedlam,  in  London,  I  talked  with  a  crazy  politician, 
who  confided  to  me  that  God  is  a  Russian  spy.  I  will  get  the 
fellow  to  help  me  in  my  Political  Annals. 

LUNEBURG,  October  30,  1827. 

They  said  at  Hamburg  that  I  was  in  love,  dead  in  love,  with 
the  actress  Peche.  Two  people  know  that  it  could  not  be—I 
and  Frau  von  Varnhagen.  Men  profess  to  know  in  Berlin 
that  Wolfgang  Goethe  has  spoken  ill  of  me.  Frau  von  Varn- 
hagen will  be  sorry  for  this. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
Cbe  "  political  annate." 

MUNICH  AT  LAST.     About  November  28,  1828. 
To  Varnhagen  von  Ense : 

I  got  here  some  days  since.  Cotta,  who  stayed  one  day 
longer  to  meet  me,  has  gone  back  to  Stutgard.  His  wife  is  a 
charming  woman,  who  enjoys  reading  my  verses,  and  likes  me 
personally.  Things  here  look  as  I  expected,  that  is,  very 
badly.  People  are  determined  I  shall  not  be  pleased,  and  do 
not  know  that  I  want  nothing  in  the  world  but  a  quiet  room. 
I  will  withdraw  into  myself,  and  write  a  great  deal. 

I  was  a  week  in  Cassel.  Jacob  Grimm,  who  seemed  to  be 
pleased  with  me,  was  busy  over  a  history  of  German  law  ! 
Ludwig  Grimm  drew  my  portrait — a  long,  German  face,  with 
yearning  eyes  turned  to  heaven.  I  lived  three  days  in  Frank- 
fort with  Borne.  VVe  talked  a  great  deal  about  Frau  von 
Varnhagen.  I  should  never  have  thought  Borne  cared  so 
much  for  me  ;  we  were  inseparable  up  to  the  minute  wh.en  he 
put  me  into  the  post-wagon.  I  saw  no  one  else  on  my  journey, 
except  Menzel  at  Stutgard.  The  worthy  singers  there  I  did 
not  see.  Menzel's  book  on  literature  has  many  beauties. 

MUNICH,  December  i,  1828. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 

I  am  editing  the  Annals  with  Dr.  Lindner,  and  also  writing 
some  leaders  for  the  Ausland.  Do  not  be  uneasy ;  the 
third  volume  of  the  "  Reisebilder  "  does  not  suffer  from  this, 
and  my  best  hours  shall  be  given  to  it.  But  for  such  considera- 
tions I  might  have  been  persuaded  to  take  the  Morgenblatt, 
whose  editor  has  just  died,  or  assume  the  direction  of  the 
Ausland,  and  so  make  a  great  deal  of  money.  But  I  mean 
to  keep  myself  free  ;  and  if  the  climate  is  really  so  terrible  as 
people  tell  me,  I  will  not  be  fettered  ;  if  I  find  my  health  in 
danger  I  will  pack  my  trunks  and  go  to  Italy.  I  shall  not 
starve,  care  little  for  empty  honors,  and  mean  to  keep  alive. 

173 


1 74  The  "  'Political  Annals. ' ' 

Everywhere  on  my  journey  I  found  the  "  Reisebilder "  en 
vogue — enthusiasm,  complaints,  and  amazement  everywhere  ; 
I  had  no  idea  I  was  so  famous.  I  owe  it  to  two  men — H. 
Heine  and  Julius  Campe.  These  two  will  stick  to  one  another. 
I,  at  least,  will  not  lightly  change  in  hopes  of  a  better  bargain 
and  greater  gains.  I  think  we  shall  grow  old  together,  and 
always  understand  each  other.  Accept,  now  that  I  am  more 
independent  than  before,  the  assurance  of  my  unchangeable 
feelings  for  you.  I  am  quite  satisfied  with  you — but  I  am 
writing  very  confusedly,  and  only  wanted  to  say  that,  now  that 
I  have  grown  famous,  I  fear  the  fate  of  German  authors,  an 
early  death. 

NEW  YEAR'S  EVE,  1827. 
To  Friedrich  Merckel  : 

If  you  want  to  prevent  murder  go  to  Campe,  and  tell  him 
on  no  account  to  give  any  letters  which  may  come  for  me 
to  him  to  my  brother  Gustav.  Imagine  that  he,  invoking 
your  example,  has  had  the  impertinence  to  open  letters  that 
Campe  gave  him  for  me,  and  write  me  what  they  contained. 
I  am  bursting  with  rage.  My  brother,  whom  I  would  not 
trust  with  the  secrets  of  my  cat,  much  less  of  my  soul  ! 

The  weather  here  is  killing  me  ;  otherwise  I  like  it  here. 
Am  well  taken  care  of.  The  king  is  a  nice  fellow.  Reads  the 
Annals  with  interest,  as  he  says.  In  a  week  will  appear 
the  first  part  of  the  Annals  "published  by  Heine  and  Lind- 
ner." There  is  a  short  essay  in  it  by  me  on  Liberty  and 
Equality. 


Munich  is  a  town  built  by  the  people  themselves,  and  by 
successive  generations  whose  spirit  still  lives  in  their  buildings, 
so  that  there  is  a  perpetual  procession  of  spirits  to  be  seen,  as 
in  the  witches'  scene  in  "  Macbeth  " — from  the  dark-red  spirit  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  stalking  armed  from  the  Gothic  church  doors, 
to  the  polite  and  polished  spirit  of  our  own  days,  offering  us  a 
mirror  in  which  everybody  likes  to  see  himself.  This  succes- 
sion of  spirits  excuses  everything.  We  are  not  provoked  by 
the  barbaric,  or  disgusted  by  the  tasteless,  when  we  look  on 
them  as  merely  a  beginning  and  a  necessary  state  of  transition. 
We  look  gravely,  but  without  anger,  at  the  barbaric  cathedral, 
rising  above  the  whole  city  like  some  gigantic  bootjack,  and 
hiding  in  its  recesses  the  shades  and  ghosts  of  the  Middle 


{Munich.  175 

Ages.  With  as  little  anger,  nay,  with  amused  tranquillity,  we 
gaze  on  the  bag-wig  palaces  of  a  later  period,  a  clumsy  German 
aping  of  polished  French  unnaturalness — the  fine  building  of  a  , 
tasteless  day,  crazily  ornamented  with  scrolls  on  the  outside, 
and  within  even  more  drolly  bedecked  with  glaring  allegories 
of  varied  hues,  gilded  arabesques,  stucco  work,  and  pictures 
representing  the  noble  owners  themselves.  As  I  say,  the  sight 
does  not  provoke  us,  but  is  rather  calculated  to  give  us  a 
pleasant  opinion  of  the  present ;  and  when  we  look  on  the 
new  rising  beside  the  old,  we  feel  as  if  a  heavy  peruke  had 
been  lifted  from  our  heads,  and  our  breasts  freed  from  bands 
of  steei.  I  am  speaking  of  the  fair  temples  of  art  and  noble 
palaces,  which  have  sprung  up  in  such  profusion  through  the 
genius  of  Klenze,  the  great  master  of  his  art.  But  to  call  the 
whole  city  a  new  Athens  is,  between  ourselves,  somewhat  ridic- 
ulous ;  and  it  provokes  me  greatly  to  hear  it  thus  spoken  of. 

MUNICH,  February  12,  1828. 
To  Varnhagen  von  Ense : 

Cotta  is  behaving  very  generously.  I  made  a  contract  with 
him  till  July,  and  he  gives  me  one  hundred  carolins  for  this 
half  year. 

I  will  never  go  back  to  Hamburg  in  this  life  ;  terribly  bitter 
things  happened  there,  which  would  have  been  unbearable  but 
for  the  thought  that  no  one  but  myself  knew  of  them. 

I  am  very  serious,  almost  German  here  ;  I  think  the  beer 
does  it.  I  often  long  for  the  capital — that  is,  Berlin.  If  I  am 
well  I  will  try  if  I  cannot  live  there.  I  have  become  a  Prus- 
sian in  Bavaria.  Whom  do  you  advise  me  to  cultivate,  to 
insure  me  a  pleasant  return  ? 

MUNICH,  April  16,  1828. 
To  Wolfgang  Menzel : 

O  Menzel !  How  dull — with  the  exception  of  our  articles — 
all  the  Annals  are !  I  am  persuaded  that  the  Germans 
have  no  brains  for  politics,  for  I  cannot  hunt  up  any  good 
political  pens.  Am  still  ill,  and  long  for  Italy.  Write  mighty 
little.  Kolb  can  tell  you  how  I  am.  All  is  bad  here.  A  sea 
of  little  souls,  and  a  bad  climate. 

MAY  12,  1828. 

If  I  have  not  yet  come  out  against  you  it  is  really  not  tor 
lack  of  good  will,  but  because  I  cannot  yet  come  to  any 


176  1 'he  "  'Political  Annals. ' ' 

sensible  decision  here.  But  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor 
you  will  not  escape  me.  I  was  nearly  dead  with  my  head 
this  winter,  and  the  Munich  spring  is  destroying  me.  I  will 
leave  this  place  in  a  fortnight,  and  withdraw  into  the  indus- 
trious solitude  of  the  mountains.  A  deal  might  be  wricten 
about  Munich.  Smallness  of  soul  of  the  worst  sort.  I  have 
as  yet  had  no  talk  with  Schelling  and  Gorres.  I  see  all  the 
more  of  the  two  great  lights  of  the  day,  the  Dioscuri  of  the 
heavenly  stars  of  modern  poetry,  M.  Beer  and  E.  Schenk.  I 
have  given  an  account  of  the  former's  tragedies  in  the  Mor- 
genblatt,  and  shown  the  world  how  little  I  envy  him,  ard  how 
little  I  am  piqued  by  his  fame — but  the  evil  world  took  it  badly, 
and  called  it  mystifying  the  public  ;  and  I  had  to  suffer  for  my 
good  nature. 

To  Johann  Friedrich  von  Cotta  : 

After  what  I  told  you  yesterday  you  will  easily  understand 
that  I  am  anxious  to  place  the  three  accompanying  volumes  in 
the  king's  hands  as  soon  as  possible.  Pray  do  not  forget  to 
take  them  with  you  when  you  go  to  the  king.  I  should  be 
greatly  pleased  if  you  could  let  him  know  that  the  author  is 
much  milder  and  better  than,  and  perhaps  very  different  from, 
his  early  works.  I  think  the  king  has  sense  enough  to  judge 
a  blade  by  its  edge,  rather  than  by  the  good  or  bad  use  to 
which  it  was  put.  Excuse  me  if  I  am  troubling  you  unreason- 
ably ;  but  my  remaining  here  depends  much  on  this. 


At  that  time  it  was  winter  with  my  soul ;  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings were  snowed  up,  my  mind  withered  and  dead,  and  added 
to  this  were  the  odious  politics  and  my  grief  for  a  dear  child 
who  had  lately  died,  the  revival  of  an  old  fit  of  anger,  and  the 
influenza.  Moreover,  I  drank  a  great  deal  of  beer,  as  I  was 
assured  it  thinned  the  blood.  But  the  best  Attic  "breihahn" 
did  not  agree  with  me,  as  I  had  grown  accustomed  to  porter  in 
England. 

At  last  came  a  day  when  all  was  changed.  The  sun  came 
out  in  the  heavens,  and  fed  that  old  baby,  the  earth,  with  its 
milky  rays  ;  the  mountains  trembled  for  joy  and  shed  copious 
tears  of  snow  ;  the  icy  covering  of  the  waters  cracked  and  broke 
up  ;  tne  earth  opened  its  blue  eyes,  sweet  flowers  sprang  from 


Awakening  of  Spring.  177 

its  bosom  ;  the  green  palaces  of  the  nightingales,  the  woods, 
rustled  ;  all  nature  smiled — and  the  smile  was  called  spring. 
Within  me,  too,  there  came  a  new  spring  ;  new  flowers  blos- 
somed in  my  heart,  thoughts  of  freedom  sprang  up  like  roses, 
and  mysterious  longings,  like  young  violets,  mixed,  it  is  true, 
with  many  a  worthless  nettle.  Over  the  graves  of  the  past 
Hope  spread  her  green  mantle  once  more  ;  poetic  melodies 
came  back,  as  birds  of  passage,  driven  by  winter  to  the  warm 
South,  return  to  their  deserted  nests  in  the  North  ;  and  the 
deserted  Northern  heart  beat  and  glowed  once  more.  Yet  I 
know  not  how  all  this  came  to  pass.  Was  it  a  dark  or  a  blond 
sun  that  awakened  the  spring  in  my  heart,  and  kissed  the 
flowers  that  lay  asleep  there  till  they  opened  again,  while  the 
nightingales  smiled  upon  it  ?  Was  it  sympathetic  Nature  her- 
self who  sought  an  echo  in  my  breast,  and  rejoiced  to  see  her 
young  spring  smile  mirrored  there  ?  I  know  not  ;  but  I  believe 
that  the  new  charm  fell  into  my  heart  on  the  terrace  of  Bogen- 
hausen,  in  full  sight  of  the  Tyrolean  Alps.  As  I  sat  dreaming 
there  I  seemed  to  see  the  face  of  a  wondrously  fair  youth 
look  down  upon  me,  and  longed  for  wings  to  fly  to  Italy, 
the  land  of  his  home.  I  felt  drawn  by  the  odor  of  lemons 
and  oranges,  sweeping  down  from  the  mountains,  full  of  flat- 
teries and  promises,  to  tempt  me  to  Italy.  Once,  in  the  golden 
light  of  evening,  I  saw  the  young  god  of  spring  on  the  top  of 
an  alp,  his  head  wreathed  with  laurel  and  flowers  ;  and  with 
laughing  eyes  and  rosy  lips  he  cried  :  "  I  love  thee  !  Come  to 
me,  to  Italy  !  " 


CHAPTER  IX. 
to 


As  the  sun  shone  out  fairer  and  braver  in  the  heavens,  cloth- 
ing mountains  and  towns  with  a  golden  veil,  my  heart  grew 
warmer  and  lighter,  my  bosom  was  again  filled  with  flowers 
that  sprang  up  and  grew  riotously  over  my  head,  and  the  fair 
spinner  once  more  smiled  sweetly  down  upon  me  through  the 
flowers  of  my  heart.  Wrapped  in  such  dreams,  myself  a 
dream,  I  journeyed  on  to  Italy,  forgetting  my  journey's  end  so 
utterly  that  I  was  astonished  when  large  Italian  eyes  began  to 
look  at  me,  and  the  many-colored  Italian  life  surged  around 
me  with  its  warmth  and  murmurings. 


LIVORNO,  August  27,  1828. 
To  Eduard  von  Schenk  : 

What  I  think  of  Italy  you  will  sooner  or  later  read  in  print. 
My  ignorance  of  the  Italian  language  annoys  me  much.  I  do 
not  understand  the  people,  and  cannot  talk  with  them.  I  see 
Italy,  but  do  not  hear  it.  Yet  I  am  often  not  without  conver- 
sation. The  stones  speak  here,  and  I  understand  their  silent 
speech  ;  and  they  seem  to  feel  all  I  think.  A  broken  column 
of  the  Roman  time,  a  ruined  Lombard  tower,  or  a  shattered 
Gothic  pillar  understands  me  perfectly.  I  am  a  ruin  wander- 
ing among  ruins.  Like  understands  like  at  once.  The  old 
palaces  would  now  and  then  whisper  a  secret  to  me,  which  I 
cannot  hear  for  the  noises  of  the  day  ;  so  I  come  back  at  night, 
and  the  moon  is  a  good  interpreter,  who  knows  the  lapidary 
style  and  can  translate  it  into  the  language  of  my  heart.  Yes, 
at  night  I  can  understand  Italian,  when  the  young  folk  with 
their  opera  talk  are  asleep,  and  the  old  rise  from  their  cold 
beds  and  speak  the  choicest  Latin  with  me.  There  is  something 
ghostly  in  coming  to  a  country  where  you  do  not  understand 
the  living  language  and  living  people,  but  know  well  the  lan- 

i7s 


Lucca.  179 

guage  that  flourished  there  a  thousand  years  ago,  but  is  now 
spoken  by  none  but  the  midnight  spirits — a  dead  language. 

However,  there  is  a  language  in  which  a  man  can  make  him- 
self plain  from  Lapland  to  Japan  to  one-half  of  the  human 
race  ;  and  it  is  the  fairer  half — what  we  call,  par  excellence,  the 
fair  sex.  This  language  flourishes  in  Italy.  What  need  of 
words  when  such  eyes  look  eloquently  into  the  bottom  of  a 
poor  tedesco's  heart  ? — eyes  that  speak  better  than  Demos- 
thenes or  Cicero  ;  eyes — I  am  speaking  the  truth — that  are  as 
large  as  full  grown  stars. 


BAGNI  DI  LUCCA,  September  6,  1828. 
To  Moses  Moscr  : 

This  letter  comes  to  you  from  the  baths  of  Lucca,  where  I 
am  bathing,  chatting  with  pretty  women,  scrambling  over  the 
Apennines,  and  doing  a  thousand  foolish  things.  I  had  many 
things  to  say  to  you,  but  see  with  horror  that  I  am  short  of 
paper.  I  shall  stay  here  two  weeks,  then  go  to  Florence,  Bo- 
logna, Venice.  I  often  think  of  you  ;  and  it  was  not  good  of 
you  not  to  answer  me  at  Munich.  At  Munich  I  led  a  charm- 
ing life,  and  should  be  glad  to  go  back  and  stay  there.  During 
the  last  weeks  of  my  stay  there  I  had  my  likeness  taken  by 
one  of  the  best  portrait  painters  ;  and  as  I  left  suddenly  I  gave 
him  your  address  and  the  order  to  send  the  picture  to  you  in 
Berlin.  You  have  probably  already  received  it.  It  is  intended 
for  my  parents  in  Hamburg,  and  I  send  it  by  Berlin  that  you 
and  my  friend  may  see  it.  Cotta  is  teasing  me  to  found  a  new 
journal  instead  of  the  Annals.  I  do  not  know  what  I  shall 
do.  I  have  no  friends  on  whose  literary  help  I  can  count.  I 
stand  alone.  First  of  all,  I  mean  to  amuse  myself  in  Italy.  I 
am  living  a  great  deal  and  writing  little.  I  read  the  finest 
poetry,  real  heroic  poetry.  In  Genoa  a  rascal  swore  on  the 
Madonna  to  run  me  through.  The  police  declared  that  such 
fellows  keep  their  word,  and  advised  me  to  go  away  at  once  ; 
but  I  stayed  for  six  days,  and  went  to  walk  by  the  sea  at  night, 
as  usual.  I  read  Plutarch  all  the  afternoon  ;  and  shall  I  run 
from  a  modern  cutthroat  ?  When  I  return  to  Germany  I  shall 
publish  the  third  volume  of  the  "Reisebilder."  They  think  in 
Munich  that  I  shall  not  be  so  hard  on  the  nobility  hereafter, 
as  I  am  living  in  the  midst  of  them  and  am  in  love  with  the 
most  amiable  aristocratic  ladies  and  beloved  by  them.  They 
are  wrong.  My  love  of  equality,  my  hate  of  the  clergy  were 


i8o  'Trip  to  Italy. 

never  stronger  than  now  ;  I  am  almost  one-sided.  But  in  order 
to  act  a  man  must  be  one-sided.  The  Germans  and  Moser  are 
too  many-sided  ever  to  come  to  any  action. 


LUCCA,  September  15,  1828. 
To  Salomon  If  erne  : 

This  letter  comes  to  you  from  the  baths  of  Lucca  in  the 
Apennines,  where  I  have  been  taking  the  baths  for  a  fort- 
night. Nature  is  lovely  here,  and  the  people  agreeable.  In 
the  high  mountain  air  that  we  breathe  here  little  cares  and 
sorrows  are  forgotten  and  the  soul  expands. 

I  have  thought  of  you  so  vividly  of  late,  and  have  so  often 
longed  to  kiss  your  hand,  that  it  is  natural  I  should  write  to 
you.  If  I  put  it  off  until  I  have  left  this  place,  and  bitter,  sor- 
rowful thoughts  again  fill  my  heart,  I  shall  write  bitterly  and 
sadly.  I  will  not  do  so,  nor  think  of  the  complaints  I  might 
make  of  you,  which  are  perhaps  greater  than  you  can  imagine. 
I  pray  you  to  lay  aside  some  of  your  grounds  of  complaint 
against  me,  which  are  all  a  matter  of  money,  and,  if  reckoned 
to  the  utmost  farthing,  amount  after  all  to  a  sum  that  a  mil- 
lionaire can  well  throw  away  ;  while  my  complaints  cannot  be 
reckoned  up,  and  are  eternal,  for  they  are  of  the  soul,  and 
spring  from  a  deeply  wounded  spirit.  If  I  had  ever  by  one 
word  or  look  failed  in  respect  for  you  and  your  house  (which  I 
have  loved  but  too  well )  you  would  have  a  right  to  complain. 
But  all  your  complaints  together  would  go  into  a  money-bag, 
and  not  a  very  large  one  either,  and  not  be  tightly  packed. 
And  suppose  the  sack  were  too  small  to  hold  all  of  Salomon 
Heine's  complaints  against  me,  and  should  burst — do  you 
think,  uncle,  it  would  be  as  bad  as  if  a  heart  broke  that  had 
been  overloaded  with  reproaches  ? 

But  enough  ;  the  sun  is  shining  brightly,  and  as  I  look 
out  of  window  I  see  nothing  but  smiling  hills  and  vines.  I 
will  make  no  reproaches,  but  love  you  as  I  always  have — 
will  remember  only  your  heart,  which  I  assure  you  is  sweeter 
than  all  the  fine  things  that  I  have  seen  in  Italy. 

Farewell  ;  remember  me  to  all  your  family — Hermann,  Karl, 
and  pretty  Therese.  I  rejoice,  under  reservation,  at  her  mar- 
riage ;  next  to  myself  I  could  not  have  chosen  her  a  better 
husband  than  Dr.  Halle.  Tilly  is  now  with  me  as  much  as 
with  you  ;  her  loving  spirit  followed  me  everywhere,  especially 
on  the  Mediterranean.  Her  death  has  made  me  more  calm. 


Florence.  181 

I  only  wish  I  had  some  of  her  handwriting.  It  is  sad  that  we 
have  no  likeness  of  her  sweet  face.  Ah  !  there  are  so  many  on 
our  walls  that  we  could  spare. 

FLORENCE,  October  i,  1828. 

To  Eduard  von  Schenk  : 

0  Schenk !  my  heart  is  so  full,  so  overflowing,  that  I  can 
find  no  other  cure  than  to  write  an  enthusiastic  book  or  two. 
At  the  baths  of  Lucca,  where  I  spent  a  long  and  heavenly 
time,  I  wrote  half  of  a  book,  a  sort  of  "  Sentimental  Journey."    I 
thought  mostly  of  you  and  Immermann  as  my  readers  .  .  .  Yes, 
dear   Schenk,  you    must  lend  me  your  honest  name  for  this 
book,  which  I  shall  not  apologize  for  dedicating  to  you.     But 
do  not  be  uneasy  ;    you   shall  first  have  it  to  read,  and  it  will 
contain  a  deal  of  clever  and  tender  things.      I  must  give  you 
some  open  proof  of  my  remembrance  ;  you  have  deserved  it, 
as  one  of  the  few  who  gave  any  thought  to  making  my  outward 
condition  secure  ;  and  may  God  help  me,  as  I  hope  that  the 
King  of  Bavaria  will  some  day  thank  you  for  it.     I  feel  full  of 
strength,  and  will  turn  it  to  good  account. 

FLORENCE,  November  u,  1828. 
To  Johann  Friedrich  von  Cotta  : 

Lest  you  may  think  I  have  fallen  in  love  with  a  dancer,  and  so 
am  tarrying  here,  and  am  as  lazy  as  Borne  himself,  I  have  been 
at  work  on  the  beginning  of  my  Italian  diary — cutting  out 
the  strong  words  and  chapters,  so  that  the  inclosed  manuscript 
may  be  printed  in  the  Morning  Journal  (and  at  once,  too). 

1  have  since  spent  some  delightful  days  at  the  baths   of 
Lucca  and  at  Leghorn.     I  have  been  here  for  six  weeks,  wait- 
ing for  letters  and  studying  the  fine  arts,  of  which  the  ballet  is 
one.     But  please  take  notice  that  I  am  not  in  love  with  any  of 
the  ballet  dancers,  although  such  a  passion  goes  well  with  a 
cold  in   the  head  and  a  cough,  and  is  as  great  a  misfortune. 
On  the  contrary,  I   am  very  busy  writing  a  book  and  reading 
Malthus  and  Bentham  ;  and  have  made  out  of  my  own  head  a 
new  theory  of  criminal  law  that  will  please  you. 


Think  of  it !     I  did  not  get  to  Rome.     I  have  never  seen 
Rome  !   It  is  strange  I  did  not  go  there.  While  I  was  in  Upper 


1 82  Trip  to  Italy. 

Italy  I  longed  for  Rome,  but  found  I  had  no  money.  And 
that  I  could  change  in  Italy  a  whole  sheaf  of  banknotes  that  I 
had  brought  from  London  never  occurred  to  me  till  I  was 
back  in  Germany.  However,  I  should  have  had  to  give  it  up 
at  any  rate,  for  I  was  seized  with  such  a  sudden  and  morbid 
longing  to  see  my  father  that  I  could  not  resist  it,  and  turned 
homeward.  It  was  apparently  without  any  special  ground, 
but  I  could  not  help  it.  On  the  way  I  received  a  letter  from 
my  brother,  who  wrote  that  our  father  was  dangerously  ill,  and 
that  I  should  find  later  and  fuller  tidings  with  Herr  Textor  in 
Wurzburg.  I  went  at  once  to  Wiirzburg,  but  when  I  got 
there  my  father  was  dead. 

He  was  a  worthy  man,  and  for  years  I  could  not  realize  the 
loss  nor  cease  to  grieve  for  him.  It  is  strange  that  we  cannot 
believe  in  the  death  of  one  whom  we  did  not  see  die — that  we 
do  not  believe  that  one  we  love  can  die. 

Yes  !  Yes  !  You  talk  of  reunion  in  a  transfigured  shape ! 
What  would  that  be  to  me  ?  I  knew  him  in  his  old  brown 
surtout,  and  so  I  would  see  him  again.  Thus  he  sat  at  table, 
the  salt  cellar  and  pepper  caster  on  either  hand  ;  and  if  the 
pepper  was  on  the  right  and  the  salt  on  the  left  hand  he 
shifted  them  over.  I  knew  him  in  a  brown  surtout,  and  so 
I  would  see  him  again. 


CHAPTER    X. 
a  Summer  in  potsoam. 

POTSDAM,  May  2,  1829. 
To  Friederike  Robert: 

It  is  terrible  weather  here.  The  spring  flowers  would  fain 
blossom  sweetly,  but  a  cold  intellectual  wind  blows  on  their 
young  cups,  and  they  shiver  and  close  again. 

C'est  tout  comme  chez  nous!  whispers  my  heart — my  heart 
that,  in  spite  of  the  weather,  loves  you  and  some  others. 

MAY,  1829. 

I  am  no  longer  a  lonely  Crusoe  here.  Some  officers  have 
landed  on  my  island,  cannibals.  Last  evening  in  the  New 
Garden  I  fell  in  with  some  ladies,  and  sat  surrounded  by 
Potsdam  women,  like  Apollo  among  the  cows  of  Admetus. 

The  day  before  I  was  at  Sans  Souci,  where  all  is  blooming 
and  gay  ;  but,  good  Lord  !  it  was  only  a  heated  and  green- 
bedecked  winter,  and  little  fir  trees  stand  on  the  terrace  mas- 
querading as  orange  trees.  I  walked  round,  singing  in  my 
head  : 

"  Du  moment  qu'on  aime, 
L'on  devient  si  doux  ! 
Et  je  suis  moi-meme 
Aussi  tremblant  que  vous." 

It  is  the  monster's  song  in  "  Ze*mire  and  Azor."  I,  poor 
monster,  poor  bewitched  prince,  am  so  melancholy  that  I  am 
ready  to  die.  And  ah  !  when  a  man  wants  to  die,  he  is  half 
dead  already.  I  have  laid  aside  my  great  humorous  work, 
and  gone  again  to  my  Italian  journey,  which  will  fill  the  third 
part  of  the  "  Reisebilder,"  and  in  which  I  mean  to  settle 
accounts  with  all  my  enemies.  I  have  made  a  list  of  all  who 
sought  to  annoy  me,  lest  I  should  forget  some  in  my  present 
weak  state.  Ill  and  wretched  as  I  am,  it  is  like  making  fun 
of  myself  to  be  describing  the  bright  part  of  my  life — when 

183 


184  <^J  Summer  in  'Potsdam. 

I  was  intoxicated  with  good  fortune  and  conceit,  and  car- 
oled on  the  tops  of  the  Apennines,  dreaming  strange,  long 
dreams  in  which  my  fame  was  spread  over  the  whole  earth, 
even  to  the  farthest  islands,  where  the  fishermen  would  talk 
of  me  round  the  fire  at  night.  How  tame  I  have  grown  since 
my  father's  death  !  In  such  distant  islands  I  would  fain  be 
the  cat  that  sits  by  the  warm  hearth  and  listens  while  they 
tell  of  famous  deeds.  . 


Yes  ;  it  is  really  curious  that  I  once  fell  in  love  with  a  girl 
after  she  had  been  dead  for  seven  years.  When  I  first  knew 
little  Very  I  found  her  very  pleasing.  For  three  whole  days 
I  occupied  myself  with  this  young  creature,  and  was  delighted 
with  all  she  did  and  said,  with  all  the  ways  in  which  her  charm- 
ing nature  revealed  itself  ;  but  my  heart  was  not  stirred  by  any 
tender  emotion.  Nor  was  I  much  affected  to  hear,  some 
months  later,  that  she  had  died  of  a  nervous  fever.  I  quite 
forgot  her,  and  am  sure  that  I  did  not  once  think  of  her  for 
years.  Full  seven  years  had  passed,  when  I  found  myself  in 
Potsdam,  where  I  had  gone  to  enjoy  the  sweet  summer  in  un- 
disturbed solitude.  I  did  not  meet  a  soul,  and  had  no  other 
company  than  the  statues  in  the  garden  of  Sans  Souci.  One 
day  the  features  of  a  face  and  a  peculiarly  pleasant  way  of 
speaking  and  moving  came  into  my  memory,  though  I  could 
not  remember  in  whom  I  had  met  them.  There  is  nothing 
more  disquieting  than  such  a  hunting  through  one's  past  mem- 
ories ;  and  I  was  delighted  when,  after  several  days,  I  recalled 
little  Very  to  mind  and  knew  that  it  was  her  sweet  but  for- 
gotten picture  whose  passing  memory  had  so  disturbed  me.  I 
was  as  pleased  at  the  discovery  as  one  is  by  an  unexpected 
meeting  with  an  old  friend.  The  dim  colors  grew  gradually 
plainer  ;  and  at  last  the  little  girl  stood  before  me  as  if  in  life, 
smiling,  coaxing,  bright,  and  prettier  than  ever.  From  that 
moment  the  fair  picture  never  left  me,  and  filled  my  whole  soul ; 
wherever  I  went,  she  was  by  my  side  ;  and  she  talked  to  me, 
but  not  with  any  especial  affection.  I  grew  more  and  more 
enchanted  with  the  picture  every  day,  and  every  day  it  grew 
more  and  more  real.  It  is  easy  to  raise  spirits,  but  hard  to  send 
them  back  into  their  dark  nothingness  ;  they  look  so  implor- 
ingly at  us  that  our  hearts  plead  in  their  favor.  I  could  not 
break  free,  and  grew  to  love  little  Very  when  she  had  been 


Little  Very.  185 

dead  seven  years.  For  six  months  I  lived  in  Potsdam,  quite 
wrapped  up  in  this  love.  I  avoided  all  contact  with  the  outer 
world  more  than  ever  ;  and  if  anyone  approached  me  in  the 
street  I  was  filled  with  painful  embarrassment.  I  encouraged 
in  myself  a  sort  of  shyness,  such  as  the  night-wandering  spirits 
of  the  dead  must  feel ;  for  they  say  these  are  as  much  afraid  to 
meet  a  living  person  as  the  living  are  to  meet  a  ghost.  But  a 
traveler  came  to  Potsdam  whom  I  could  not  avoid  ;  it  was  my 
brother.  At  sight  of  him,  and  at  his  account  of  all  that  had 
lately  taken  place,  I  awoke  as  from  a  deep  dream,  and  felt  with 
a  shudder  in  what  a  ghastly  solitude  I  had  lived  so  long.  I 
had  taken  no  note  of  the  changing  seasons  ;  and  now  looked 
with  wonder  on  the  trees,  which  had  dropped  their  leaves  and 
were  covered  with  the  frosts  of  autumn.  So  I  left  Potsdam  and 
little  Very  ;  and  in  another  town,  where  I  had  important  busi- 
ness, vexatious  affairs  and  duties  soon  brought  me  back  to  the 
harsh  realities  of  life. 


CHAPTER  XL 
3Life  in  Tbamburg. 

IN  speaking  of  what  was  worth  seeing  in  the  republic  of  Ham- 
burg I  must  not  forget  to  mention  that  in  my  time  the  Apollo 
Hall,  on  the  Drehbahn,  was  a  brilliant  place.  It  has  greatly 
gone  down  since  ;  philharmonic  concerts  are  given  there,  jug- 
glers give  their  shows,  and  naturalists  are  fed  there.  It  was  all 
different  once  !  Trumpets  blew,  drums  rattled,  ostrich  feathers 
waved,  and  Heloise  and  Minka  went  through  the  figures  of  the 
Oginski  Polonaise — and  it  was  a  fine  sight.  Bright  days,  when 
fortune  smiled  on  me  !  And  fortune's  name  was  Heloise ! 
She  was  the  sweetest,  dearest,  fairest  fortune,  with  rosy  cheeks, 
pearly  teeth,  delicate  nose,  lips  like  sweet-scented  petals,  eyes 
as  blue  as  a  mountain  lake  ;  but  there  was  a  shade  of  sadness 
on  her  brow,  like  a  cloud  over  a  bright  spring  landscape.  She 
was  slender  as  a  poplar  and  gay  as  a  bird  ;  and  her  skin  was  so 
fine  that  a  scratch  from  a  hairpin  showed  upon  it  for  twelve 
days.  But  if  she  pouted  at  the  scratch,  it  was  only  for  twelve 
seconds,  and  then  she  laughed.  Bright  days,  when  fortune 
smiled  on  me  !  .  .  .  Minka  rarely  smiled,  for  her  teeth  were 
not  pretty.  But  her  tears  were  all  the  lovelier  when  she  wept; 
and  she  wept  over  everyone's  sorrows,  and  was  charitable 
beyond  all  conception.  She  gave  her  last  shilling  to  the  poor. 
Her  heart  was  so  good.  Her  gentle,  yielding  nature  was  in 
charming  contrast  with  her  looks.  A  bold,  Juno-like  form  ;  a 
firm  white  neck,  wreathed  with  black  curls  like  wanton  ser- 
pents ;  eyes  that  from  beneath  two  dark  triumphal  arches  looked 
out  with  conquering  glances  ;  red  lips  proudly  curved  ;  marble- 
white  hands,  formed  to  rule,  but  alas,  somewhat  freckled  ;  and 
on  her  left  hip  she  had  a  brown  mole  shaped  like  a  little  dagger. 

If  I  take  you  into  so-called  bad  company,  dear  reader,  con- 
sole yourself  with  the  thought  that  it  cost  me  more  than  it  does 
you.  There  will  be  no  lack  of  ideal  women  later  in  this  book  ; 
and  even  now  I  will  present  to  you  for  your  amusement  two 
ladies  of  quality  that  I  knew  and  honored  at  this  period. 
They  were  Mme.  Pieper  and  Mme.  Schnieper.  The  one  was 
a  handsome  woman  of  ripe  years,  with  large  black  eyes,  a 


.   T^ieper  and  IMme.    Scbneiper.  187 

broad  white  forehead,  black  false  hair,  a  haughty  Roman  nose, 
and  a  mouth  that  was  a  guillotine  to  everyone's  good  name. 
Never  was  there  a  better  engine  of  capital  punishment  for  repu- 
tations than  Mme.  Pieper's  mouth.  She  did  not  keep  the 
victim  kicking  long,  and  made  no  tedious  preparations  ;  when 
the  best  name  got  between  her  lips  she  smiled — the  smile  was 
the  ax  ;  the  reputation  was  off  and  dropped  into  the  basket. 
She  was  a  pattern  of  deportment,  piety,  honor,  and  virtue. 
Mme.  Schneiper  had  the  same  reputation.  She  was  a  deli- 
cate woman,  with  a  timid  little  bosom,  generally  wrapped  in  a 
sad-colored  veil,  with  light  blond  hair,  light  blue  eyes  that 
peered  with  a  terribly  cunning  look  from  out  of  her  white  face. 
Her  step  was  said  to  be  quite  inaudible  :  and  certainly  she 
often  appeared  close  by  you  without  any  warning,  and  then  van- 
ished as  noiselessly.  Her  smile  was  death  to  a  good  name  ; 
but  not  so  much  in  the  fashion  of  an  ax  as  like  the  poisonous 
African  wind,  at  whose  breath  every  flower  droops  ;  each  good 
name  at  which  she  smiled  drooped  sadly.  She  was  a  pattern  of 
deportment,  honor,  piety,  and  virtue. 

I  would  not  omit  to  praise  certain  sons  of  Hammonia,  nor 
omit  to  celebrate  those  men  who  have  been  most  highly  re- 
puted— namely,  those  who  were  esteemed  worth  several  millions 
of  marks  ;  but  I  smother  my  enthusiasm  for  the  moment,  that 
it  may  blaze  out  more  brightly  hereafter.  I  am  ruminating 
no  less  of  a  design  than  to  build  a  Temple  of  Honor  to  Ham- 
burg, on  the  same  plan  as  was  proposed  by  a  celebrated  author 
ten  years  since.  No  matter  on  what  ground,  the  thing  was 
never  done  ;  and,  as  I  have  an  inborn  desire  to  do  something 
great  in  the  world,  and  have  always  striven  to  do  what  is  im- 
possible, therefore  I  have  taken  up  the  tremendous  project  ; 
and  I  present  to  Hamburg  a  Temple  of  Honor,  an  immortal 
roll  of  giants,  whereon  shall  be  inscribed  the  glory  of  all  its 
inhabitants  without  exception,  where  I  shall  carefully  distin- 
guish all  noble  traits  from  the  ordinary  benevolence  that  never 
gets  into  the  newspapers — and  shall  relate  certain  great  deeds 
which  no  one  will  believe  in  ;  and  whereto  my  own  portrait, 
seated  on  the  Jungfernstieg  in  front  of  the  Swiss  pavilion,  rumi- 
nating on  the  glories  of  Hamburg,  will  appear  as  a  frontispiece. 

For  the  benefit  of  readers  who  do  not  know  Hamburg — and 
there  may  be  such  in  China  or  Upper  Bavaria — I  will  mention 
that  the  prettiest  walk  for  the  sons  and  daughters  of  Ham- 
monia is  legitimately  known  as  the  Jungfernstieg  ;  *  that 
it  consists  of  a  linden  walk,  which  lies  between  a  row  of 

*  Maidens'  Walk. 


1 88  Life  in  Hamburg. 


houses  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  great  Alster  basin  on 
the  other  ;  and  that  in  front  of  this  last,  built  in  the  water, 
there  stand  two  pretty  tent-like  cafes,  called  pavilions.  In 
front  of  one,  called  the  Swiss  pavilion,  it  is  pleasant  to  sit  in 
summer,  if  the  afternoon  sun  does  not  beat  down  too  fiercely, 
but  only  shines  brightly  enough  to  cast  a  fairylike  glow  over 
the  lindens,  the  houses,  the  people,  the  Alster,  and  the  swans 
swimming  in  it.  It  is  pleasant  to  sit  there ;  and  there  I  have 
sat  many  a  summer  afternoon,  and  thought  about  what  a  young 
fellow  usually  thinks  about — namely,  nothing  whatever — and 
looked  at  what  a  young  fellow  usually  looks  at — namely,  the 
young  girls  walking  by.  And  they  fluttered  by,  each  fair  crea- 
ture with  her  winged  cap  and  ornamented  basket  with  nothing 
in  it — they  tripped  along,  these  girls  from  the  four  countries, 
who  supply  all  Hamburg  with  strawberries  and  their  own  milk, 
and  w.hose  petticoats  are  much  too  long — the  tradesmen's 
daughters  walked  proudly  by,  who  bring  a  man  so  much  solid 
cash  with  their  love — a  nurse  skips  along  with  a  rosy  baby 
on  her  arm,  and  showers  kisses  on  him  that  are  meant  for  her 
lover — there  pass  priestesses  of  the  foam-born  goddess,  hanse- 
atic  vestals,  Dianas  starting  for  the  chase,  naiads,  dryads, 
hamadryads,  and  other  clergymen's  daughters,  and  ah  !  there 
walked  Minka  and  He'loi'se  !  How  often  I  sat  before  the 
pavilion,  and  saw  them  pass  in  their  pink  striped  gowns — they 
cost  four  marks  three  shillings  the  ell,  and  Herr  Seligmann 
assured  me  those  pink  stripes  would  wash  well ;  "magnificent 
creatures  !  "  cried  the  virtuous  youths  that  sat  beside  me. 

I  never  said  a  word,  but  thought  my  sweetest  nothing-at-all 
thoughts,  and  looked  at  the  girls  and  the  soft  blue  sky  and  the 
slender  spire  of  the  Petrithurm,  and  the  calm  blue  Alster, 
where  the  swans  were  swimming,  so  proud  and  lovely  and  bold. 
The  swans  !  I  could  look  at  them  for  hours,  the  dear  crea- 
tures, with  their  soft  long  necks,  sailing  so  voluptuously  upon 
the  gentle  stream,  and  now  and  then  plunging  under  with 
delight  and  coming  up  again,  and  splashing  so  boldly  ;  until 
the  heavens  grew  dark,  and  the  golden  stars  came  out,  longing, 
promising,  wondrously  tender  and  serene.  The  stars !  Are 
they  golden  flowers  on  the  bridal  bosom  of  heaven  ?  Are 
they  eyes  of  beloved  angels,  looking  yearningly  at  their  own 
image  in  the  blue  waters  of  the  earth,  and  wooing  the  swans? 
Ah  !  that  is  long  ago.  I  was  young  and  foolish  then.  Now  I 
am  old  and  foolish.  Since  then  many  a  flower  has  faded,  and 
many  a  one  has  been  trampled  to  the  ground.  Many  a  silken 

*  Saxony,  Franconia,  Bavaria,  and  Swabia. 


The  Jungfernstieg.  189 


dress  has  been  torn,  and  Herr  Seligmann's  pink  calico  has 
faded.  He  himself  has  faded  away,  the  firm  is  now  "  Widow 
of  the  late  Seligmann,"  and  He"loi'se,  the  tender  creature  who 
seemed  made  to  tread  on  flowered  Indian  carpets  and  be 
fanned  with  peacock  feathers,  has  gone  under  in  sailors' 
dances,  punch,  tobacco  smoke,  and  bad  music.  When  I  next 
met  Minka,  she  called  herself  Kathinka,  and  lived  between 
Hamburg  and  Altona  ;  she  looked  like  Solomon's  temple  after 
Nebuchadnezzar  had  destroyed  it,  and  smelt  of  Assyrian  to- 
bacco ;  and  when  she  told  me  about  Helo'ise's  death,  she  wept 
bitterly  and  tore  her  hair  in  despair,  and  almost  fainted  ;  she 
had  to  take  a  big  glass  of  brandy  to  revive  herself. 

And  the  town  itself,  how  it  was  changed  !  And  the  Jung- 
fernstieg  !  The  snow  lay  on  the  roofs,  and  the  houses  looked 
as  if  they  had  grown  old  and  whitehaired.  The  lindens  were 
dead  trees,  waving  their  specterlike  bare  branches  in  the  cold 
wind.  The  sky  was  of  a  cold  blue,  and  growing  dark.  It  was 
Sunday ;  five  o'clock,  the  common  feeding  time  ;  carriages 
were  rolling  by ;  men  and  women  got  out  with  a  frozen  smile 
on  their  hungry  lips — horrible  !  In  a  moment  came  over  me 
the  terrible  notion  that  all  the  faces  wore  a  look  of  utter  idiocy, 
and  all  the  people  hurrying  by  were  a  set  of  strange  idiots.  I 
had  seen  them  twelve  years  before  at  the  same  hour,  with  the 
same  look  and  the  same  movements,  like  puppets  coming  out 
of  a  clock  ;  and  since  then,  they  had  been  going  on,  casting  up 
accounts,  going  to  the  exchange,  making  visits,  wagging  their 
jaws,  feeing  the  waiters,  and  casting  up  accounts  again  ;  twice 
two  are  four.  Horrible  !  I  cried.  What  if  one  of  these  men, 
sitting  at  his  desk,  suddenly  took  it  into  his  head  that  twice 
two  are  five,  and  that  he  had  all  his  life  counted  wrong  and 
spent  all  his  life  in  this  dreadful  mistake  !  I  myself  had  a 
queer,  crazy  notion  once  ;  for  looking  close  at  these  passing 
people,  I  fancied  they  were  nothing  but  a  row  of  Arabic 
figures — A  crookbacked  Two,  beside  an  ugly  Three,  his  big- 
bosomed,  pregnant  wife  :  Mr.  Four  came  next  on  crutches  ; 
a  hideous  Five  waddled  by,  with  a  round  belly  and  little  head  ; 
then  came  the  well-known  little  Six,  and  the  equally  well- 
known  wicked  Seven.  But  when  I  looked  sharply  at  the  un- 
lucky Eight,  I  recognized  the  insurance  broker,  who  used  to  be 
rigged  out  like  a  Whitsunday  ox,  but  now  looked  like  one  of 
Pharaoh's  lean  kine — hollow  white  cheeks  like  empty  soup 
plates  :  his  nose  pinched  and  red  as  a  winter  rose ;  a  shabby 
black  coat,  worn  glossy  ;  a  hat  through  which  Time  had  thrust 


190  Life  in  Hamburg. 


his  scythe  in  various  places  ;  but  with  his  boots  still  brightly 
polished.  He  seemed  to  have  given  up  all  thoughts  of  making 
his  breakfast  and  lunch  of  Heloi'se  and  Minka,  and  to  care 
more  for  a  common  dinner  of  beef.  I  recognized  many  more 
acquaintances  in  the  zeros  that  rolled  by.  All  these  figures 
rolled  by  hasty  and  hungry,  while  a  grimly  grotesque  funeral 
was  toiling  up  the  Jungfernstieg  near  by.  Dismal  masquerade  ! 
Behind  the  hearse,  the  town  undertakers  in  their  old-time 
costume  came  stumping  along  on  their  black-stockinged  legs, 
like  figures  in  a  puppet  show  of  death — short  black  cloaks  and 
black  breeches,  white  wigs  and  white  cravats,  out  of  which 
their  hired  red  faces  peered  forth  in  a  ludicrous  fashion,  short 
steel  swords  by  their  side,  and  green  umbrellas  under  their 
arms. 

Worse  yet,  and  more  confusing  than  these  pictures  floating 
silently  by  like  Chinese  shadows,  were  the  noises  that  smote 
my  ears  from  another  side.  They  were  dry,  rasping,  muffled 
sounds,  frantic  shrieks,  helpless  splashings  and  desperate 
gasps,  panting  and  squealing,  groans  and  cries — indescribable, 
ice-cold  cries  of  pain.  The  basin  of  the  Alster  was  frozen 
over,  and  a  great  square  opening  had  been  cut  through  the  ice 
near  the  shore.  The  terrible  notes  I  describe  came  from  the 
throats  of  the  poor  white  creatures  swimming  round  in  this, 
and  screaming  in  deadly  fear.  Alas  !  they  were  the  very  swans 
whose  joyous  grace  had  shortly  before  delighted  my  soul. 
Oh,  the  fair  white  swans  !  They  had  had  their  wings  broken 
that  they  might  not  set  off  for  the  warm  south  in  the  autumn  ; 
and  now  the  north  held  them  fast  in  its  cold  and  icy  grave, 
and  the  pavilion  waiter  declared  they  were  happy,  and  that  the 
cold  was  good  for  them.  It  is  not  true  ;  it  is  not  pleasant  to 
be  a  prisoner  in  an  icy  pool,  half  frozen,  with  broken  wings,  so 
that  you  cannot  fly  to  the  south,  with  its  fair  flowers  and  golden 
sun  and  blue  mountain  lakes.  Alas  !  I  was  hardly  better  off ; 
and  I  understood  the  terror  of  the  poor  swans  as  it  grew  dark 
and  the  stars  came  out  brightly — the  same  stars  that,  in  the 
fair  summer  nights,  had  wooed  the  swans  with  all  the  ardor  of 
love  ;  now  icy  cold,  frosty,  and  clear,  they  looked  down  on 
them  with  scorn.  I  saw  now  that  the  stars  are  no  loving,  sym- 
pathizing creatures,  but  glittering  deceits  of  the  night,  eternal 
phantasms  in  a  heaven  of  dreams,  golden  lies  in  the  dark  blue 
of  nothing.  .  . 


CHAPTER  XII. 
"Revolution  of 

HELIGOLAND,  July  i,  1830. 
To  Varnhagen  von  Ense  : 

I  am  tired  of  this  guerrilla  warfare  and  long  for  rest — or  at 
least  for  a  position  in  which  I  can  be  free  to  give  myself  up  to 
my  natural  inclinations,  my  moods  and  ways,  my  fantastic 
thoughts  and  reveries.  What  irony  of  fate  that  I,  who  would 
fain  rest  quiet  in  the  contemplative  pool  of  a  home  life,  should 
be  chosen  to  whip  my  poor  fellow-Germans  out  of  their  self- 
content  and  drive  them  to  action  !  I,  who  am  best  pleased 
when  I  can  watch  the  clouds,  play  ingenious  metrical  tricks 
with  words,  listen  to  the  secrets  of  the  spirits  of  the  elements, 
and  bury  myself  in  the  wonder  world  of  old  fable — I  must 
write  political  annals,  discuss  the  topics  of  the  hour,  devise 
revolutionary  schemes,  rouse  passions,  pluck  poor  German 
Michel  by  the  nose  to  rouse  him  from  his  enchanted  sleep.  It 
is  true  I  only  succeed  in  making  the  snoring  giant  sneeze,  and 
never  in  rousing  him.  If  I  snatch  away  his  pillow  he  pulls  it 
back  half  drunk  with  sleep.  In  despair  I  once  tried  to  burn 
up  his  nightcap,  but  it  was  so  damp  with  the  sweat  of  his  brain 
that  it  only  smoked  a  little,  and  Michel  smiled  in  his  sleep. 

AUGUST  i. 

You  have  no  idea  how  the  dolce  far  niente  here  suits  me. 
I  did  not  bring  one  book  that  treats  of  the  questions  of  the 
day.  My  whole  library  consists  of  Paul  Warnefried's  "History 
of  the  Lombards,"  the  Bible,  Homer,  and  a  few  pamphlets  on 
witchcraft.  I  should  like  to  write  an  interesting  little  book 
on  this  last  subject.  With  that  idea  I  lately  busied  myself 
with  researches  into  the  last  traces  of  heathenism  in  Christian 
times.  It  is  well  worth  notice  how  long,  and  under  what  dis- 
guises, the  beautiful  personages  of  the  Grecian  world  of  fable 
maintained  a  place  in  Europe. 

The  day  is  young,  and  in  spite  of  the  sad  doubts  that  toss 
my  soul  hither  and  thither,  strange  forebodings  come  over 


192  The  Devolution  of  July. 

me.  Something  strange  is  passing  in  the  world.  The  sea 
smells  of  cakes,  and  last  night  the  cloud-monks  looked  dis- 
turbed and  sad. 

I  wandered  alone  on  the  shore  in  the  twilight.  A  solemn 
stillness  reigned  all  around.  The  vault  of  heaven  was  like  the 
dome  of  a  Gothic  church.  In  it  the  stars  hung  like  countless 
lamps,  but  they  burned  dim  and  flickering.  The  waves 
sounded  like  some  great  organ.  It  was  a  stormy  choral, 
despairingly  sad,  and  anon  triumphant.  Over  my  head  a 
windy  procession  of  cloud-forms  that  looked  like  monks,  all 
with  bowed  heads  and  sorrowful,  downcast  looks — a  sad 
throng.  They  almost  seemed  to  be  following  a  corpse. 
Whom  were  they  burying  ?  Who  was  dead  ?  I  asked  myself. 
Is  the  great  Pan  dead  ? 

AUGUST  6. 

While  his  army  was  engaged  with  the  Lombards,  the  king 
of  the  Heruli  sat  quietly  in  his  tent  and  played  chess.  He 
threatened  with  death  anyone  who  should  tell  him  of  defeat. 
The  lookout,  sitting  in  a  tree,  gazed  down  upon  the  fight  and 
cried,  "We  win,  we  win!"  till  all  at  once  he  groaned  out, 
"Unhappy  king !  Unhappy  people  of  the  Heruli!"  Then 
the  king  saw  that  the  day  was  lost — but  too  late  !  For  the 
Lombards  just  then  burst  into  his  tent  and  stabbed  him. 

I  had  just  read  this  story  in  Paul  VVarnefried,  when  a  great 
packet  of  newspapers  came  from  the  mainland  with  the  burning 
red-hot  news.  It  was  sunshine  wrapped  in  printing  paper,  and 
set  my  soul  ablaze.  I  felt  as  if  I  could  kindle  the  whole  ocean 
up  to  the  north  pole  with  the  ecstasy  and  mad  joy  that  burned 
within  me.  Now  I  know  why  the  sea  smelt  of  cakes.  The 
Seine  carried  the  good  news  to  the  whole  ocean  ;  and  in  their 
crystal  palaces  the  lovely  mermaids,  ever  kind  to  all  deeds  of 
valor,  gave  a  tht  dansant  in  honor  of  the  event  ;  and  so  the 
whole  sea  smelt  of  cakes.  I  ran  about  the  house  like  a  mad- 
man ;  kissed  first  the  fat  hostess,  then  her  friendly  sea-wolf ; 
embraced  the  Prussian  commissary,  on  whose  lips,  to  be  sure, 
lingered  a  frosty  smile  of  disbelief.  So  I  pressed  the  good 
Dutchman  to  my  heart. 

AUGUST  10. 

Lafayette,  the  tricolored  flag,  the  "  Marseillaise."  .  . 

My  longing  for  rest  is  gone.  I  once  more  know  what  I  am, 
what  I  have  to  do.  I  am  the  child  of  the  revolution,  and  seize 
again  upon  the  charmed  weapons  whereon  my  mother  breathed 


The  Second  Edition  of  the  '"T{eisebilder."       193 

her  incantations.  Flowers  !  Flowers  !  I  will  crown  my  head 
for  the  death  struggle.  The  lyre,  too  ;  hand  me  the  lyre  that 
I  may  chant  a  song  of  battle — words  like  flaming  stars  that 
fall  from  on  high  burn  the  palaces  and  light  up  the  cottages. 
Words  like  bright  javelins  wheel  aloft  to  the  seventh  heaven, 
and  smite  the  pious  hypocrites  that  have  crept  into  the  holy  of 
holies.  I  am  all  joy  and  song,  all  sword  and  flame  ! 


It  was  a  downtrodden  and  stagnant  time  in  Germany  when 
I  wrote  and  published  the  second  volume  of  the  "Reisebilder." 
But  before  it  appeared  some  rumors  concerning  it  got  abroad  ; 
it  was  said  that  my  book  would  encourage  the  repressed  spirit 
of  liberty,  and  measures  were  found  to  suppress  it.  These 
reports  made  it  advisable  to  hurry  on  the  work  and  get  it 
through  the  press.  As  it  had  to  consist  of  a  certain  number  of 
sheets  to  escape  the  jurisdiction  of  the  right  worthy  censors,  I 
was  like  Benvenuto  Cellini,  when,  not  having  enough  bronze 
to  cast  the  "Perseus,"  he  threw  into  the  pot  all  the  pewter  plates 
he  could  lay  hands  on.  It  was  easy  to  tell  the  pewter,  espe- 
cially the  pewter  end  of  the  book,  from  the  nobler  metal ;  but 
good  judges  of  the  handiwork  recognized  the  master's  hand. 

As  the  world  constantly  repeats  itself,  the  same  strait  fell  on 
this  volume,  and  I  had  to  throw  in  a  deal  of  pewter ;  and  I 
hope  its  presence  may  be  set  down  to  the  necessities  of 
the  time. 

But  the  whole  book  sprang  from  the  necessities  of  the  times, 
as  well  as  the  earlier  writings  of  a  like  aim.  The  author's  near 
friends,  who  were  acquainted  with  his  private  circumstances, 
know  how  little  his  egotism  has  to  do  with  his  coming  forward, 
and  how  great  a  sacrifice  he  has  made  for  every  free  word  he 
has  spoken,  and,  please  God,  will  speak.  Words  are  now  deeds 
whose  consequences  cannot  be  measured,  and  no  one  can  tell 
if  he  may  not  at  last  be  a  martyr  to  his  words. 

Oh,  the  grand  week  in  Paris  !  The  spirit  of  liberty  which 
spread  over  Germany  did,  to  be  sure,  sometimes  overturn  the 
night  lamps  ;  so  that  the  red  hangings  of  some  thrones  were 
singed,  and  the  gold  crowns  grew  hot  under  burning  night- 
caps ;  but  the  old  catchpoles  in  the  pay  of  the  police  soon 
brought  their  fire  buckets  ;  and  they  now  sniff  about  more 
watchfully  than  ever,  and  forge  stronger  chains  ;  and  I  notice 


ip4  The  ^Revolution  of  July. 


that  invisible  prison  walls,  thicker  than  ever,  are  rising  round 
the  German  people. 

Poor  imprisoned  people  !  Despair  not  in  your  trials  !  Oh, 
that  I  could  speak  catapults  !  Oh,  that  I  could  shoot  fire-bolts 
from  my  heart ! 

The  crust  of  aristocratic  ice  melts  round  my  heart ;  a  strange 
sadness  comes  over  me.  Is  it  love,  and  love  for  the  German 
people  ?  Or  is  it  illness  ? 

A  great  joy  comes  over  me.  As  I  sit  writing,  music  resounds 
under  my  window;  and  by  the  elegiac  fury  of  the  long-drawn 
melody  I  know  the  "Marseillaise,"  with  which  Barbaroux  and 
his  companions  greeted  Paris — the  ranz  des  vaches  of  freedom, 
at  the  sound  of  which  the  Swiss  at  the  Tuileries  grew  home- 
sick— the  triumphant  death  song  of  the  Gironde — the  old, 
sweet  cradle  song. 

What  a  song  !  It  thrills  me  with  fire  and  joy,  and  kindles 
in  me  glowing  stars  of  enthusiasm  and  rockets  of  scorn.  Yes, 
these  shall  not  lack  in  the  great  fireworks  of  the  time.  Sound- 
ing streams  of  vocal  flame  shall  burst  forth  on  high  in  the  air 
of  liberty  in  mighty  cascades,  as  the  Ganges  rushes  down  from 
the  Himalayas  !  And  thou,  fair  Satyra,  daughter  of  just 
Themis  and  goat-footed  Pan,  lend  me  thy  aid.  By  thy  mother 
thou  art  sprung  from  the  race  of  the  Titans ;  and  like  me  thou 
hatest  thy  kindred's  foes,  the  weak  usurpers  of  Olympus. 
Lend  me  thy  mother's  sword  that  I  may  smite  the  hateful 
brood  ;  and  give  me  thy  father's  pipe  that  I  may  pipe  them  to 
their  death. 

Now  they  hear  the  deadly  piping,  and  a  panic  terror  seizes 
them ;  and  they  fly  in  the  shape  of  beasts  as  when  we  piled 
Pelion  on  Ossa. 

Aux  armes,  citoyens  ! 

I  cannot  write,  for  the  music  beneath  my  window  intoxicates 
my  brain  and  the  chorus  soars  upward  stronger  and  stronger ! 

Aux  armes,  citoyens  ! 


HAMBURG,  November  19,  1830. 
To  Varnhagen  von  Ense  : 

As  there  are  birds  that  foresee  any  physical  revolution,  such 
as  storms,  earthquakes,  and  inundations,  so  there  are  men  whom 


'Doubts.  195 

coming  social  revolutions  affect  beforehand,  crushing,  disturb- 
ing, and  paralyzing  their  minds  in  a  curious  way.  This  is  my 
explanation  of  my  condition  this  year,  up  to  the  end  of  July. 
J  felt  bright  and  well,  but  could  turn  to  nothing  but  stories  of 
revolution,  day  and  night.  I  bathed  for  two  months  at  Heligo- 
land ;  and  when  the  news  of  the  great  week  came  it  seemed  a 
matter  of  course,  and  merely  a  continuation  of  my  readings. 
Here,  on  the  continent,  I  saw  things  done  which  might  give  a 
weaker  soul  a  disgust  for  what  is  fairest.  Although  disturbed 
on  every  hand,  I  set  to  work  on  a  little  book  to  help  on  the 
time,  using  some  old  material ;  and  I  called  it  "  Supplement  to 
the  Reisebilder."  I  sent  it  a  fortnight  since  to  Leipsic,  where 
it  will  be  printed  by  Hoffmann  &  Campe  ;  and  I  think  you  will 
see  it  in  three  weeks.  You  will  not  be  deceived  by  my  polit- 
ical introduction  and  conclusion,  in  which  I  assume  the  whole 
book  to  be  of  recent  date.  In  the  first  half  three  sheets  are 
old  ;  in  the  second  half  nothing  is  new  but  the  final  essay. 
The  book  is  deliberately  one-sided.  I  know  well  enough 
that  the  revolution  affects  all  social  interests  ;  and  that  the 
aristocracy  and  the  Church  are  not  its  only  enemies.  But  I 
have  amused  myself  by  representing  these  as  its  only  sworn 
enemies,  in  order  to  narrow  the  contest.  I  myself  hate  the 
aristocratic  bourgcoise  even  more. 

APRIL  i,  1831. 

When  I  found,  after  last  July,  how  liberalism  was  drawing 
recruits  to  its  ranks,  and  how  the  Swiss  Guards  of  the  old 
rtgime  were  cutting  up  their  red  coats  to  make  Jacobite  caps 
of  them,  I  was  well  minded  to  draw  back,  and  take  to  writing 
art  stories.  But  as  the  thing  spread,  and  bad  news,  though 
false,  came  from  Poland,  and  the  freedom  shriekers  lowered 
their  tone,  I  wrote  an  introduction  to  a  work  on  the  aristocracy, 
which  you  will  receive  within  a  fortnight,  and  in  which,  moved 

by  the  perils  of  the  hour,  I  have  perhaps  gone  too  fast,  and 

You  will  find  plenty  of  intentional  imprudence  in  it,  and  must 
kindly  excuse  that  and  the  troubled  and  bad  style.  In  the 
meanwhile  I  have  written  something  crazier  yet — but  put  it 
into  the  fire,  as  things  looked  brighter.  What  next  ?  Next 
I  look  for  some  new  step  backward,  am  full  of  evil  prophecies — 
and  dream  every  night  of  packing  my  trunk,  and  going  off  to 
Paris,  to  breathe  a  fresher  air,  and  give  myself  up  to  the  holy 
emotions  of  my  new  religion,  and  perhaps  get  consecrated  as 
one  of  its  priests. 


BOOK  IV. 

IN  EXILE. 
1831-1848. 


CHAPTER  I. 
JFtrst  Ifmprcgstons  of  parte. 

I  HAD  labored  and  suffered  much  ;  and  when  the  sun  of  the 
Revolution  of  July  rose,  I  was  weary  and  needed  some  diver- 
sion. My  native  air  grew  every  day  more  unfavorable  to  me, 
and  I  had  to  think  seriously  of  finding  a  new  climate.  I  saw 
visions  ;  the  clouds  tormented  me,  and  made  horrible  grimaces 
at  me.  The  sun  often  looked  to  me  like  a  Prussian  cockade  ; 
I  dreamed  at  night  of  a  terrible  vulture  who  fed  on  my  liver  ; 
and  I  grew  melancholy.  I  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  an 
old  Berlin  counselor  of  justice,  who  had  spent  many  years  in 
the  fortress  of  Spandau,  and  used  to  tell  me  how  disagreeable 
it  is  to  wear  fetters  in  winter.  It  did  seem  to  me  rather  un- 
christian that  they  did  not  warm  them  a  bit.  If  our  fetters 
were  only  warmed  they  would  not  make  so  disagreeable  an 
impression,  and  even  chilly  natures  could  bear  them  very  well. 
And  men  ought  to  take  the  precaution  to  perfume  them  with 
rose  and  baywater,  as  they  do  in  this  country.  I  asked  my 
counselor  if  he  had  oysters  to  eat  in  Spandau.  He  said,  No 
— Spandau  was  too  far  from  the  sea.  Meat  too,  he  said,  was 
rare  ;  and  there  was  no  poultry,  except  the  flies  that  fell  into 
your  soup.  About  the  same  time,  I  became  acquainted  with  a 
French  commis  voyageur,  who  traveled  for  a  wine  merchant,  and 
was  never  tired  of  telling  me  how  pleasant  life  was  now  in  Paris 
— how  the  sky  was  hung  with  fiddles,  people  were  from  morn- 
ing to  night  singing  the  "  Marseillaise  "  and  "  En  Avant,  Mar- 
chons  ! "  and  "  Lafayette  aux  Cheveux  Blanc,"  and  howLiberte, 
Egalite,  Fraternite",  was  written  up  at  every  street  corner. 
He  also  praised  his  house's  champagne,  and  gave  me  a  pile  of 
his  circulars,  and  promised  me  letters  of  introduction  to  the 
best  Parisian  restaurants,  in  case  I  might  be  going  to  the  cap- 
ital to  get  cheered  up.  As  I  needed  cheering  up,  and  as 
Spandau  is  too  far  from  the  sea  to  have  oysters,  and  I  was  not 
much  tempted  by  the  fly  soup,  and  as,  besides,  the  Prussian 
fetters  are  cold  in  winter  and  might  be  bad  for  my  health,  I 
determined  to  go  to  Paris,  the  country  of  champagne  and  the 

199 


First  Impressions  of 'Paris. 


"  Marseillaise,"  to  drink  the  one  and  hear  the  people  sing  the 
other,  and  "  En  Avant,  Marchons  ! "  and  "  Lafayette  aux 
Cheveux  Blancs." 

On  the  ist  of  May,  1831,  I  crossed  the  Rhine.  I  did  not 
see  old  Father  Rhine,  but  I  had  the  pleasure  of  leaving  my  card 
for  him  in  the  stream.  I  was  told  he  was  down  below,  having 
gone  to  work  again  on  Meidinger's  French  grammar,  as  he 
had  gone  back  in  his  French  during  the  Prussian  rule,  and 
wanted  to  get  it  up  again  in  case  of  need.  I  thought  I  heard 
him  down  there,  conjugating  j'aime,  tu  aimes,  il  aime,  nous 
aimons.  But  what  does  he  love  ?  I  saw  the  Strasburg  cathedral 
only  from  a  distance  ;  it  wagged  its  head,  like  true  old  Eckart, 
when  he  sees  a  youngster  bound  for  the  Venusberg. 

At  Saint  Denis  I  awoke  from  a  sweet  morning  nap,  and 
heard,  for  the  first  time,  the  driver  of  the  coucou  call  out, 
"  Paris  !  Paris  !  "  and  the  jingle  of  the  cocoa  seller's  bell. 
Here  you  begin  to  breathe  the  air  of  the  capital,  already  visi- 
ble on  the  horizon.  An  old  scamp  of  a  valet  de place  tried  to 
persuade  me  to  visit  the  kings'  graves,  but  I  did  not  come  to 
France  to  see  dead  kings.  I  amused  myself  by  listening  to  his 
legends  of  the  place — for  instance,  how  the  bad  heathen  king 
cut  off  the  holy  Denis'  head,  and  how  he  walked  from  Paris  to 
Saint  Denis  with  his  head  in  his  hand,  in  order  to  be  buried 
there  and  leave  his  name  to  the  place.  The  speaker  declared 
that,  considering  the  distance,  it  was  a  wonderful  thing  that  a 
man  could  walk  so  far  without  a  head  ;  but,  he  added,  with  a 
queer  smile,"  Dans  des  cas  pareils,  il  n'y  a  que  le  premier  pas 
qui  coute."  It  was  worth  two  francs,  and  I  gave  them  to  him 
pour  1'amour  de  Voltaire,  whose  sarcastic  smile  I  recognized. 
In  twenty  minutes  I  was  in  Paris,  passing  in  under  the  trium- 
phal arch  of  Saint  Denis,  which  was  originally  built  in  honor 
of  Louis  XIV.,  but  now  served  to  glorify  my  entrance  into 
Paris.  I  was  really  astonished  at  the  crowd  of  well-dressed 
people,  looking  like  a  plate  in  a  fashion  journal.  I  was  also 
impressed  by  their  all  speaking  French,  which,  with  us,  is  a 
sign  of  belonging  to  the  best  society  ;  the  people  here  are  all 
as  distinguished  as  our  aristocracy.  The  men  were  all  so  polite, 
and  the  women  so  smiling.  If  anyone  ran  against  me  without 
making  some  excuse,  I  might  wager  he  was  my  fellow-country- 
man ;  and  if  any  one  of  the  fair  sex  looked  cross,  she  had 
either  eaten  sauerkraut  or  could  read  Klopstock  in  the  original. 
I  found  everything  so  amusing,  and  the  air  was  so  sweet,  so  brac- 
ing, and  the  beams  of  the  sun  of  July  still  lingered  here  and 


Arrival  in  'Paris.  201 


there.  The  cheeks  of  Lutetia  the  fair  still  blushed  with  that 
sun's  burning  kisses,  and  the  bridal  flowers  in  her  bosom  were 
not  yet  faded.  To  be  sure,  on  some  street  corners  "  Liberte", 
Egalite,  Fraternite  "  had  been  rubbed  out. 

I  went  to  the  restaurants  to  which  I  had  been  recommended. 
The  masters  of  them  assured  me  they  would  have  received  me 
without  any  introduction,  as  I  had  an  honest  and  distinguished 
air  that  would  of  itself  have  sufficed  to  introduce  me.  No 
keeper  of  a  German  cookshop  ever  told  me  that,  if  he  thought 
it ;  that  sort  of  bumpkin  thinks  he  must  keep  pleasant  things 
to  himself,  and  his  German  frankness  makes  him  say  only  dis- 
agreeable things  to  your  face.  There  is  a  charming  flattery  in 
the  manners  and  speech  of  the  French,  which  costs  little  and 
is  agreeable  and  enlivening.  My  soul,  poor  sensitive  plant, 
which  shut  itself  up  under  the  rudeness  of  my  fatherland, 
opened  out  to  the  flattering  words  of  French  urbanity.  God 
gave  us  tongues  to  say  pleasant  things  to  our  fellow-men. 

My  French  was  somewhat  halting  on  my  arrival,  but,  after 
half  an  hour's  interview  with  a  little  flower  girl  of  the  Passage 
de  1'Opera,  my  French,  which  had  grown  rusty  since  the  battle 
of  Waterloo,  grew  fluent  ;  I  stumbled  along  with  the  most 
gallant  conjugations,  and  enlightened  the  little  girl  as  to  the 
Linnaean  system,  in  which  flowers  are  classified  by  their 
stamens  ;  she  divided  them  differently,  into  those  that  smelt 
sweet  and  those  that  stunk.  I  believe  she  divided  men  in  the 
same  way,  She  was  surprised  I  was  so  learned  in  spite  of  my 
youth,  and  sounded  the  praises  of  my  learning  all  through  the 
Passage  de  1'Opera.  Here,  again,  I  inhaled  the  sweet  incense 
of  flattery,  and  was  greatly  pleased.  I  wandered  about  among 
the  flowers,  and  roasted  larks  fell  into  my  open  mouth.  What 
a  number  of  amusing  things  I  saw  on  my  arrival  !  All  the 
notabilities  of  public  pleasure  and  official  absurdity.  The 
most  serious  Frenchmen  were  the  most  amusing.  I  saw  Arnal, 
Bouffe,  Dejazet,  Debureau,  Odry,  Mile.  Georges,  and  the 
great  kettle  on  the  palace  of  the  Invalides.  I  saw  the  Morgue, 
the  Academic  Franfaise,  where  also  there  were  various  unknown 
corpses  on  view,  and  finally  the  necropolis  of  the  Luxembourg, 
with  the  mummies  of  all  the  perjuries  and  false  oaths  sworn  to 
all  the  dynasties  of  the  French  Pharaohs.  In  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes  I  saw  the  giraffe,  the  three-legged  goat,  and  the 
kangaroos,  which  greatly  amused  me.  I  also  saw  M.  de  La- 
fayette, and  his  white  hair  ;  but  saw  the  last  separately,  in  a 
locket  hanging  on  the  neck  of  a  pretty  woman — as  he  himself, 


202  First  Impressions  of 'Parts. 

the  hero  of  both  worlds,  wore  a  brown  wig,  like  all  old  French- 
men. I  went  to  the  royal  library,  and  saw  the  custodian  of 
the  medals  which  were  all  stolen  ;  in  a  dark  passage  there,  I 
also  saw  the  zodiac  of  Denderah,  which  once  attracted  so 
much  notice  ;  and  on  the  same  day  I  saw  Mme.  Recamier,  the 
most  celebrated  beauty  of  the  time  of  the  Merovingians, 
as  well  as  M.  Ballanche,  who  was  among  the  pieces  justifica- 
tives  of  her  virtue,  and  whom  she  dragged  about  with  her 
everywhere.  Unluckily  I  did  not  see  M.  de  Chateaubriand, 
who  would  certainly  have  amused  rne.  But  I  saw  instead,  at 
the  Grande  Chaumiere,  Pere  la  Hire,  at  a  moment  when  he 
was  bougrement  en  coKre.  He  had  just  seized  on  two  young 
Robespierres,  in  their  white  and  flowing  robes  of  innocence, 
and  thrown  them  out  of  doors  ;  he  flung  after  them  a  young 
Saint  Just  who  was  giving  himself  airs  ;  and  several  pretty 
citoyennes  of  the  Quartier  Latin,  who  complained  of  this 
violation  of  the  rights  of  man,  came  near  sharing  the  same 
fate.  In  another  similar  place  I  saw  the  famous  Chicard,  the 
famous  leather  dealer  and  can-can  dancer — a  square-built 
figure,  with  a  steaming  red  face  in  strong  contrast  to  his  white 
cravat.  Stiff  and  grave,  he  looked  like  an  assistant  mayor 
about  to  crown  a  rosttrc.  I  marveled  at  his  dancing,  and  told 
him  it  was  like  the  antique  dance  of  Silenus,  which  was 
danced  at  the  feasts  of  Bacchus,  and  took  its  name  from 
Silenus,  the  worthy  preceptor  of  Bacchus.  M.  Chicard  also 
was  very  flattering  in  what  he  said  of  my  learning,  and  pre- 
sented me  to  several  ladies  of  his  acquaintance,  who  did  not 
fail  to  spread  the  fame  of  my  learning  abroad,  so  that  my 
reputation  soon  got  about  Paris,  and  the  editors  of  the  papers 
came  to  ask  me  for  contributions. 


Paris  delighted  me  by  the  cheerfulness  that  showed  itself  in 
all  things,  which  must  have  an  influence  on  the  gloomiest 
mind.  Wonderful  !  Paris  is  the  stage  on  which  the  greatest 
of  the  world's  tragedies  have  been  acted,  at  the  recollection  of 
which,  even  in  the  remotest  lands,  hearts  beat  and  eyes  grow 
moist  ;  yet  here  the  spectator  of  these  great  tragedies  feels  as 
I  did  once  at  the  Porte  Saint  Martin,  when  seeing  the  "  Tour 
de  Nesle."  I  happened  to  sit  just  behind  a  lady  who  wore  a 
pink  gauze  bonnet,  so  large  that  it  hid  from  me  the  whole 
stage,  and  I  saw  all  the  tragedies  that  were  taking  place  on  this 
through  the  red  gauze  of  the  hat ;  so  that  all  the  horrors  of 


French  'Politeness.  203 


the  "  Tour  de  Nesle  "  appeared  in  a  rose-colored  light.  Yes — 
there  is  just  such  a  rosy  light  in  Paris,  brightening  all  its 
tragedies  to  the  eye  of  a  near  spectator,  so  that  they  do  not 
interfere  with  his  enjoyment  of  life.  The  terror  that  one 
brings  to  Paris  with  him  in  his  heart,  loses  its  pain.  One's 
sorrows  are  wonderfully  soothed.  All  wounds  heal  far  more 
quickly  in  Paris  than  anywhere  else  ;  its  air  has  something 
as  generous,  as  charming,  as  benign  as  the  people  themselves. 

What  most  pleased  me  in  the  Parisian  people  was  their  kindly 
ways  and  gentle  bearing.  .  .  Sweet  fragrance  of  politeness, 
like  that  of  a  pineapple  !  How  my  wounded  spirit  revived, 
that  had  suffered  so  much  in  Germany  from  the  smell  of 
tobacco,  sauerkraut,  and  the  roughness  of  life  !  Like  a  melody 
of  Rossini  still  sound  in  my  ears  the  words  of  apology  spoken 
by  a  Frenchman  who  gave  me  a  slight  push  in  the  street  on 
the  day  of  my  arrival.  Such  politeness  almost  frightened  me, 
accustomed  to  German  digs  in  the  ribs  without  a  word  of 
excuse.  In  the  first  week  of  my  stay  I  sometimes  got  jostled 
on  purpose,  only  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  the  musical  apol- 
ogies. Not  only  in  this  politeness,  but  in  their  language  itself, 
the  French  people  seem  to  me  to  have  an  air  of  distinction. 
For,  as  you  know,  with  us  of  the  North,  French  is  rather  a  mark 
of  high  birth,  and  I  had  from  my  childhood  associated  speaking 
French  with  distinction.  And  a  dame  de  la  halle  spoke  better 
French  than  a  German  canoness  of  sixty-four  quarterings. 

And  this  language,  that  gives  the  French  people  such  a  dis- 
tinguished air,  makes  them  appear  charmingly  fabulous.  This 
springs  from  another  recollection  of  my  childhood.  The  first 
book  in  which  I  learned  to  read  French  was  La  Fontaine's 
fables.  The  plain  simplicity  of  its  style  made  an  indelible 
impression  on  my  mind  ;  and  when  I  got  to  Paris,  and  heard 
French  spoken  on  all  sides,  La  Fontaine's  fables  came  to  my 
mind,  and  I  seemed  to  be  listening  to  the  familiar  voices  of 
the  animals  ;  first  the  lion  spoke,  then  the  wolf,  then  the  lamb, 
or  the  stork,  or  the  dove.  I  often  recognized  the  fox,  too,  and 
recall  the  words : 

"  Eh  !  bonjour,  M.  du  Corbeau  ! 
Que  vous  etes  joli !  que  vous  me  semblez  beau  !  " 

But  such  fabulous  memories  rose  still  oftener  in  my  mind 
when  I  had  penetrated  into  the  higher  circles  of  Paris,  known 
as  the  world.  This  was  indeed  the  world  that  had  furnished 


204  First  Impressions  ofParis. 

La  Fontaine  with  his  types  of  animal  character.  The  winter 
season  began  soon  after  I  reached  Paris,  and  I  took  part  in 
the  salon-\\iz  in  which  that  world  finds  more  or  less  diversion. 
The  most  interesting  thing  in  that  world  in  my  eyes  was,  not 
so  much  the  similarity  of  manners  that  prevailed,  as  the  variety 
of  its  materials.  Often,  when  in  a  crowded  salon  I  observed 
the  people  who  were  peacefully  assembled  there,  I  felt  as  if  I 
were  in  some  curiosity  shop,  in  which  relics  of  all  ages  lay 
mixed  pell-mell — a  Greek  Apollo  beside  a  Chinese  pagoda, 
a  Mexican  god  next  to  a  Gothic  Ecce-homo,  Egyptian  dog- 
headed  idols,  caricature  saints  of  wood,  ivory,  metal,  and  so 
forth.  I  saw  old  mousquetaires  who  had  danced  with  Marie 
Antoinette,  mild-mannered  Republicans  who  had  been  deified 
in  the  Assemblee  Nationale,  Montagnards  without  pity  and 
without  stain,  ex-members  of  the  Directory  who  had  been 
throned  in  the  Luxembourg,  high  dignitaries  of  the  Empire 
before  whom  all  Europe  had  trembled,  Jesuits  powerful  under 
the  Restoration — nothing,  in  a  word,  but  the  defaced  and 
mutilated  deities  of  various  times,  in  whom  no  one  now  believed. 
Their  names  clash  when  uttered  together,  but  you  see  them 
stand  peacefully  and  quietly  side  by  side,  like  the  antiquities 
in  such  a  shop  as  I  have  named  on  the  Quai  Voltaire.  In 
German  lands,  where  passions  are  under  less  control,  compan- 
ionship among  such  heterogeneous  personages  would  be  im- 
possible. With  us  of  the  cold  North,  the  necessity  of  talking 
is  not  so  strong  as  in  warmer  France,  where  the  greatest 
enemies,  meeting  in  a  salon,  cannot  long  maintain  a  gloomy 
silence.  The  desire  to  please,  too,  is  so  strong  that  men 
hasten  to  appear  agreeable,  not  only  to  friends  but  even  to 
enemies.  There  is  a  constant  draping  and  attitudinizing,  and 
the  women  have  some  trouble  in  beating  the  men  in  coquetry; 
but  they  succeed.  There  is  no  malice  in  these  remarks  ;  cer- 
tainly not  toward  French  women,  least  of  all  the  Parisians.  I 
am  their  devoted  admirer,  and  admire  them  far  more  for  their 
failings  than  for  their  virtues.  I  know  nothing  more  striking 
than  the  fable  that  the  Parisian  women  come  into  the  world 
with  all  possible  faults,  and  that  a  good  fairy  takes  pity  on 
them  and  casts  a  spell  on  every  fault,  turning  it  into  a  new 
charm.  This  good  fairy's  name  is  Grace. 

When  I  came  to  Paris  in  the  summer  of  1831  nothing  sur- 
prised me  more  than  the  exhibition  of  paintings  then  open  ; 


French  *Art.  205 

and  although  my  mind  was  taken  up  with  the  all-important 
political  and  religious  revolutions,  I  could  not  help  writing 
first  of  the  great  revolution  which  had  taken  place  in  art,  of 
which  this  Salon  was  a  most  marked  example.  Like  all  my 
countrymen  I  had  a  most  inartistic  opinion  of  French  art, 
especially  French  painting,  whose  late  developments  were 
quite  unknown  to  me.  Painting  in  France  had  this  interesting 
peculiarity,  that  it  followed  the  social  movement,  and  finally 
renewed  its  youth  like  the  people  itself. 

Alas  !  amid  the  discordant  echoes  of  the  history  of  the  world, 
our  souls  must  seek  consolation  in  the  eternal,  melodious 
history  of  mankind.  At  this  moment  these  discordant  echoes, 
this  perplexing  din,  sound  louder  and  more  deafening  than 
ever  ;  drums  are  snarling,  weapons  are  clashing.  An  angry 
crowd,  crazy  with  grief,  is  rolling  through  the  streets — the 
people  of  Paris — cursing  and  shouting,  "Warsaw  has  fallen."* 
.  .  .  All  one's  ideas  and  thoughts  are  disturbed  and  put  to  flight 
by  the  tumult.  Yesterday,  after  I  had  chanced  to  be  on  the 
boulevard,  where  I  saw  a  white-faced  man  drop  down  from 
hunger  and  want,  I  could  go  on  writing.  But  when  a  whole 
people  sinks  down  on  the  boulevard  of  Europe,  it  is  impossible 
to  write  calmly. 

When  the  critic's  eye  is  dimmed  with  tears,  his  opinions  are 
of  little  value. 

My  prophecy  of  the  end  of  the  artistic  period,  which  began 
by  Goethe's  cradle  and  will  end  beside  his  coffin,  seems  near 
its  fulfillment.  The  art  of  to-day  must  perish  ;  for  its  principles 
are  rooted  in  the  old  regime  that  is  gone,  in  the  Holy  Roman 
Empire  of  the  past.  The  new  time  will  bring  forth  a  new  art 
in  harmony  with  its  inspirations,  not  drawing  its  symbols  from 
a  faded  past,  and  creating  a  new  technique  different  from  any 
that  has  yet  been  seen. 

PARIS,  February  10,  1831. 

While  misfortune  and  want  are  afflicting  states  from  within, 
and  their  outward  conditions  are  growing  more  involved  ; 
while  all  institutions,  even  royal  supremacy,  are  in  peril ;  while 
the  political  hurly-burly  is  threatening  all  existing  things,  the 
Paris  of  this  winter  is  still  the  old  Paris — the  fair,  enchanted 
city,  that  smiles  so  sweetly  on  youth,  fascinates  the  man  so 
entirely,  and  so  kindly  consoles  him  whose  hair  is  gray. 

*  Warsaw  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Russians  on  the  8th  of  Septem- 
ber, 1831. 


2o6  First  Impressions  of  'Paris. 

11  Here  one  may  do  without  good  fortune,"  Mme.  de  Stael 
once  said — a  striking  phrase,  but  one  which  lost  its  virtue  in 
her  mouth ;  for  her  misfortune,  in  her  own  eyes,  lay  in  not 
being  permitted  to  live  in  Paris,  and  Paris  was  in  itself  good 
fortune  to  her.  The  love  of  Paris  forms  a  large  part  of  the 
patriotism  of  Frenchmen  ;  and  Danton's  reason  for  not  flying, 
"  that  a  man  cannot  carry  off  his  native  land  on  the  soles  of 
his  shoes,"  may  also  mean  that  he  would  miss  in  a  foreign 
country  the  magnificence  of  Paris. 

But  Paris  is  in  reality  France,  which  is  only  an  outlying 
quarter  of  Paris.  Excepting  in  its  fair  landscapes  and  the 
charming  intelligence  common  to  the  people,  France  is  barren 
— at  least  intellectually  barren.  Everything  distinguished  in 
the  provinces  soon  drifts  to  the  capital,  the  center  of  all  light 
and  brilliancy.  France  is  like  a  garden  where  all  the  beautiful 
flowers  have  been  plucked  to  make  a  nosegay — and  Paris  is 
the  nosegay.  It  is  true,  it  no  longer  smells  so  sweet  as  in  that 
flower-time  of  July,  when  people  were  stupefied  by  the  odors. 
But  it  is  still  fair  enough  for  a  bridal  bouquet  in  the  bosom  of 
Europe.  Paris  is  not  only  the  capital  of  France,  but  of  the 
whole  civilized  world,  and  the  place  of  meeting  of  all  its  intel- 
lectual notabilities.  Here  is  gathered  together  all  that  is  great 
in  love  or  hate,  in  feeling  or  thought,  in  knowledge  or  power, 
in  fortune  or  misfortune,  by  its  future  or  by  its  past.  Looking 
at  the  famous  or  notorious  men  here  assembled,  you  might 
take  Paris  for  the  Pantheon  of  the  living.  A  new  art,  a  new 
religion,  a  new  life,  is  here  created,  and  here  the  creators  of 
new  worlds  disport  themselves  freely.  Those  in  power  appear 
small ;  but  the  people  is  great,  and  feels  its  terribly  lofty 
destiny.  The  sons  will  vie  with  the  fathers  who  went  famous 
and  hallowed  to  their  graves.  Great  events  are  dawning,  and 
unknown  gods  will  appear.  So  we  laugh  and  dance  over  it 
all,  merry  jests  and  bright  mockery  play  round  everything, 
and  in  this  carnival  season  many  are  disguised  as  doctrinaires, 
and  wear  comically  pedantic  faces. 


CHAPTER  II. 
Cbolera. 


PARIS,  April  19,  1832. 

I  WAS  much  disturbed  in  my  work,  especially  by  the  horrible 
cries  of  my  neighbor,  who  died  of  the  cholera.  And  I  must 
observe  that  the  circumstances  of  the  time  had  a  bad  influence 
on  the  following  pages.  I  was  honestly  not  conscious  of 
feeling  any  uneasiness  ;  but  when  the  whetting  of  death's 
scythe  is  constantly  in  your  ears  it  is  distracting.  Some 
bodily  rather  than  mental  disturbance,  which  was  not  to  be 
escaped,  would  have  sent  me  off  with  the  other  foreigners  ; 
but  my  best  friend  was  lying  ill.*  I  say  this,  lest  my  re- 
maining in  Paris  should  be  looked  on  as  a  bravado.  No 
one  but  a  fool  would  brave  the  cholera  for  amusement. 
It  was  a  time  of  horror  far  worse  than  the  former  one, 
from  the  suddenness  and  mystery  of  the  deaths.  It 
seemed  as  though  a  masked  executioner  was  stalking  about 
Paris  with  an  invisible  guillotine.  "We  shall  all  go 
into  the  sack  one  after  the  other,"  said  my  servant  every 
morning  with  a  sigh,  when  he  gave  me  the  list  of  the  dead,  or 
told  me  of  some  acquaintance's  departure.  The  phrase  "go 
into  the  sack  "  was  no  figure  of  speech  ;  coffins  ran  short,  and 
most  of  the  dead  were  buried  in  sacks.  A  week  or  two  ago, 
as  I  was  passing  an  open  building  and  looked  at  the  merry 
crowd  within,  the  gay,  bustling  men  and  neat,  chattering  women, 
all  laughing  and  joking  as  they  drove  their  bargains,  I  remem- 
bered that  during  the  cholera  hundreds  of  white  sacks  stood 
there  with  a  corpse  in  each  one  ;  and  that  few  words,  but  all 
more  terrible,  were  to  be  heard,  as  the  watchman  told  over  the 
sacks  with  dreadful  indifference  to  the  bearers  ;  while  the 
latter,  as  they  loaded  them  upon  their  carts,  repeated  the  tale 
in  low  tones,  or  loudly  complaining  that  they  were  one  sack 
short,  whereupon  there  was  a  great  dispute.  I  remember  two 
little  children  standing  sadly  by  me,  and  one  asking  me  if  I 
could  not  tell  him  in  which  sack  his  father  was. 

*  Salomon  Heine's  only  son,  Karl. 
207 


2o8  The  Cholera. 


The  following  account  may  have  one  merit — that  it  is  as  it 
were  a  bulletin  written  on  the  field  and  during  the  fight  ;  and 
so  bears  the  impress  of  the  moment.  Thucydides  the  historian, 
and  Boccaccio  the  novelist,  have  no  doubt  left  us  better  descrip- 
tions of  the  kind  ;  but  I  doubt  if  they  would  have  been  calm 
enough,  while  the  cholera  of  their  town  was  raging  round 
them,  to  send  to  the  Universal  Gazette  of  Corinth  or  Pisa 
such  well  written  and  masterly  accounts  in  the  shape  of 
hasty  articles. 

The  pestilence  was  awaited  with  comparative  indifference, 
because  the  news  from  London  was  that  it  carried  off  com- 
paratively few.  It  seemed  to  be  looked  upon  with  contempt 
at  first,  and  people  thought  the  cholera  would  turn  out  to  be 
as  insignificant  as  various  great  reputations  had  proved.  It 
was,  then,  not  the  good  cholera's  fault  if,  in  fear  of  ridicule,  it 
took  a  course  which  Robespierre  and  Napoleon  had  before 
adopted,  and  made  itself  respected  by  decimating  the  people. 
Through  the  great  poverty  existing  here,  the  colossal  unclean- 
liness,  which  prevailed  not  only  among  the  poorer  classes,  and 
above  all  through  the  excitability  of  the  people,  their  boundless 
frivolity,  their  total  lack  of  precaution  and  prudence,  the 
cholera  was  sure  to  rage  more  fiercely  and  terribly  here  than 
anywhere  else.  Its  presence  was  officially  declared  on  the 
zgth  of  March  ;  and  as  this  was  the  day  of  the  Mi-careme  and 
the  weather  was  bright  and  sunny,  the  Parisians  streamed 
merrily  to  the  boulevards  to  look  at  the  masks,  which  held  up 
to  ridicule  the  fear  of  the  cholera  and  the  disease  itself,  by  all 
sorts  of  monstrous  caricatures.  The  public  balls  were  fuller 
than  ever  that  evening  ;  insane  peals  of  laughter  almost 
drowned  the  music.  People  got  heated  in  the  Chahut,  a 
dance  of  no  doubtful  character,  swallowed  ices  and  cold 
drinks — and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  gayest  of  the  harle- 
quins felt  a  strange  chill  in  his  limbs,  and  took  off  his 
mask  ;  when,  to  the  amazement  of  all,  his  face  was  seen  to  be 
violet  blue.  It  was  soon  found  that  this  was  not  a  joke,  and 
the  laughter  ceased  ;  wagons  full  of  men  were  taken  from  the 
hall  to  the  hospital  of  the  Hotel  Dieu,  where,  all  dressed  in  their 
masquerading  habits,  they  straightway  died.  As  the  theory 
of  infection  prevailed  in  the  first  excitement,  and  the  other 
inmates  of  the  Hotel  Dieu  shrieked  in  terror,  it  is  said  that  the 
earliest  victims  were  so  hastily  buried  that  they  were  not  even 
stripped  of  their  motley  dresses,  so  that  they  lie  in  the  grave 
as  merrily  as  they  lived. 


Tbe  Exodus.  209 


A  stillness  of  death  reigns  throughout  Paris.  A  grave  and 
stony  look  is  on  all  faces.  For  many  evenings  but  few  persons 
were  to  be  seen  on  the  boulevards,  and  these  hastened  by  each 
other  with  a  hand  or  handkerchief  over  the  mouth.  Theaters 
have  died  out.  When  I  enter  a  room  people  are  surprised  to 
see  me  still  in  Paris,  as  I  have  no  important  business  here. 
Most  strangers,  especially  my  own  countrymen,  are  already 
gone.  Obedient  parents  receive  orders  from  their  children  to 
return  home  at  once.  Godfearing  sons  comply  at  once  with 
the  kind  wishes  of  their  dear  parents,  who  want  them  at  home, 
Honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother,  that  thy  days  may  be  long 
in  the  land  !  Others  feel  a  sudden  awakening  of  an  endless 
longing  for  the  dear  fatherland,  for  the  romantic  banks  of  the 
venerable  Rhine,  for  the  beloved  mountains,  for  sweet  Swabia — 
land  of  true  love,  of  woman's  faith,  of  sweet  songs  and  health- 
ful breezes.  They  say  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville  that  120,000  pass- 
ports have  been  delivered.  Though  the  cholera  attacks  prin- 
cipally the  poorer  classes,  the  rich  have  taken  flight.  Small 
blame  to  certain  parvenus  if  they  run  away  ;  for  they  are 
aware  that  the  cholera,  coming  from  far-off  Asia,  does  not 
know  that  we  have  made  a  deal  of  money  lately  on  the  Bourse, 
and  so  may  take  us  for  poor  folk  and  make  us  bite  the  dust. 
M.  Aguado,  one  of  the  richest  bankers  and  knight  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor,  was  the  field  marshal  of  this  retreat.  The 
knight  no  doubt  kept  looking  through  his  conch  window  in 
terrible  anxiety,  taking  his  blue  footman,  standing  behind,  for 
death  incarnate,  the  real  cholera. 

The  people  murmured  bitterly  to  see  the  rich  running  off 
to  safe  places,  packed  in  with  doctors  and  apothecaries.  The 
poor  man  saw  with  rage  that  money  is  a  preservative  even 
from  death.  The  greater  part  of  the  juste  milieu  and  the 
haute  finance  has  also  gone  off  since,  and  is  living  at  its 
chateaux.  But  those  types  of  wealth,  the  MM.  Rothschild, 
remained  quietly  in  Paris  ;  proving  themselves  grand  and 
bold  in  other  things  besides  money-making. 


My  barber  tells  me  that  an  old  woman  of  the  Faubourg  Mont- 
martre  sat  at  her  window  all  night  to  count  the  corpses  car- 
ried by  ;  she  counted  three  hundred  corpses  ;  and  when  morning 
broke  was  taken  with  a  chill  and  cramps,  and  straightway  died. 
Wherever  one  looks  in  the  streets,  one  sees  funeral  proces- 


The  Cholera. 


sions,  or,  what  is  still  sadder,  hearses  with  no  one  following. 
As  there  are  not  enough  hearses,  other  kinds  of  wagons  are 
used,  which,  covered  with  black  cloth,  look  strange  enough. 
Finally  these  gave  out  ;  and  I  saw  coffins  carried  in  hackney 
carriages  ;  they  were  placed  in  the  middle,  with  the  ends 
sticking  out  of  the  doors.  It  was  an  awful  sight  when 
the  furniture  wagons,  that  we  use  for  moving,  went  by  as 
death  omnibuses,  as  omnibus  mortuis,  taking  up  the  coffins 
in  the  various  streets  and  carrying  them  by  dozens  to  the 
burial  ground. 

The  neighborhood  of  a  churchyard  where  the  hearses  gather 
presents  a  disconsolate  appearance.  As  I  was  going  to  see  an 
acquaintance,  and  arrived  just  as  his  body  was  put  into  the 
hearse,  the  sad  whim  seized  me  of  returning  the  honor  that  he 
once  paid  me  ;  and  I  took  a  carriage  and  accompanied  him  to 
Pere  Lachaise.  Near  this  churchyard  my  coachman  suddenly 
stopped  ;  and  when  I  woke  from  my  dreams  and  looked  round 
me,  I  saw  nothing  but  the  sky  and  coffins.  I  had  got  among 
some  hundreds  of  hearses,  which  had  formed  a  cue  before 
the  narrow  churchyard  gate  ;  and  in  this  black  assemblage  I 
had  to  wait,  unable  to  escape  for  several  hours.  I  idly  asked 
the  driver  the  name  of  the  corpse  who  was  my  nearest  neigh- 
bor ;  and,  sad  chance  !  he  named  a  young  woman  whose  car- 
riage, some  months  before,  as  I  was  going  to  Lointier's  after  a 
ball,  had  been  forced  to  halt  beside  mine  in  the  same  fashion. 
Then,  the  young  woman,  with  flowers  in  her  hair  and  a  face 
like  moonlight,  kept  looking  out  of  the  coach  window,  and 
showing  a  pretty  impatience  at  the  delay.  Now  she  was  still, 
and  very  likely  blue.  Often  when  the  hearse  horses  shook 
themselves  impatiently,  I  fancied  the  dead  were  impatient 
and  tired  of  waiting,  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  their  graves.  And 
when,  at  the  gate,  one  coachman  tried  to  pass  before 
another  and  threw  the  line  into  confusion,  the  gensdarmes 
came  between  them  with  drawn  sabers  ;  there  were 
cries  and  oaths,  some  carriages  were  run  into,  the  coffins 
fell  against  each  other,  and  some  bodies  fell  out.  I  thought 
this  was  the  most  horrible  kind  of  dmeute — an  Jmeute  of 
the  dead. 

To  avoid  shocking  the  reader,  I  will  not  tell  what  I  saw 
in  Pere  Lachaise.  Though  I  am  not  a  timid  man,  I  was  terri- 
bly overcome.  One  may  become  familiar  with  death  at  death- 
beds, and  so  await  his  end  with  calmness  ;  but  there  is  no  get- 
ting familiar  with  being  buried  among  cholera  corpses  in  a 


Infefted  Tar  is.  211 


iimepit.  I  hurried  as  fast  as  I  could  to  the  highest  point  of 
the  cemetery,  from  which  the  city  lies  so  fair  before  you.  The 
sun  had  now  set,  and  its  last  rays  seemed  saying  a  sad  farewell  ; 
the  damps  of  twilight  wrapped  infected  Paris  in  a  white  pall  ; 
and  I  wept  bitterly  for  the  unhappy  city,  the  city  of  liberty,  of 
enthusiasm,  of  martyrdom — the  city  of  redemption,  that  had 
suffered  so  much  to  free  mankind  ! 


CHAPTER  III. 
Sbe  "Salon." 

PARIS,  October  17,  1833. 

"  I  ADVISE  you,  gossip,  to  let  me  paint  on  your  sign,  not  a 
golden  angel,  but  a  red  lion  ;  I  am  used  to  painting  these,  and 
you  will  see,  if  I  paint  you  a  golden  angel,  it  will  look  like  a 
red  lion." 

These  words  of  an  honest  artist  should  figure  at  the  head  of 
this  book  [the  first  volume  of  the  "  Salon  "],  for  they  anticipate 
all  complaints  that  can  be  made  against  it.  To  complete  the 
explanation,  I  will  add  that  this  book,  with  trifling  exceptions, 
was  written  in  the  summer  and  autumn  of  1831,  at  a  period 
when  I  was  busy  sketching  red  lions.  I  was  surrounded  by 
noise  and  distraction  of  every  sort. 

Hypocrites  of  every  hue  will  heave  deep  sighs  over  many  of 
the  poems  in  this  book  ;  but  that  will  not  help  them.  A 
second  and  the  "  after-born  "  generation  has  recognized  that 
my  words  and  songs  grow  out  of  a  great,  god-loving,  spring- 
like mood,  which,  if  no  better,  is  at  least  as  respectable  as  the 
sad,  moldy,  Ash  Wednesday  humor  that  has  run  over  our 
fair  Europe,  and  peopled  it  with  ghosts  and  Tartuffes.  Where 
I  once  skirmished  with  light  weapons,  open  and  bitter  war  is 
now  declared  ;  I  am  no  longer  in  the  front  rank. 

God  be  praised  !  The  revolution  of  July  has  loosened 
tongues  that  were  so  long  silent ;  roused  at  last,  they  are  all 
proclaiming  at  once  what  they  so  long  kept  to  themselves,  and 
a  clamor  goes  forth  that  sometimes  deafens  me.  I  have  often 
had  a  mind  to  give  up  preaching ;  but  it  is  not  so  easy  a  thing  to 
do  as  to  resign  a  place  of  privy  counselor,  though  this  brings 
one  in  more  than  the  best  paid  chair  of  letters.  People  think 
that  whatever  we  do  is  done  through  pure  choice  ;  that  we 
pick  out  some  new  idea,  for  which  we  will  talk  and  work, 
strive  and  suffer,  as  a  philologist  might  choose  his  author,  and 
pass  the  rest  of  his  life  in  writing  commentaries  on  him.  No  ; 
we  do  not  seize  on  an  idea  ;  the  idea  seizes  on  us,  enslaves  us, 
and  drives  us  into  the  arena  to  fight  for  it  perforce,  like  gladi- 


Slaves  of  an  Idea.  2 1 3 


ators.  Thus  it  is  with  any  worthy  cause  or  mission.  It  was 
an  humble  confession,  when  Amos  said  to  King  Amaziah  :  "  I 
was  no  prophet,  neither  was  I  a  prophet's  son,  but  I  was  a 
herdman  and  a  gatherer  of  sycamore  fruit.  And  the  Lord 
took  me  as  I  followed  the  flock ;  and  the  Lord  said  unto  me  : 
Go,  prophesy  unto  my  people  Israel."  It  was  an  humble  con- 
fession when  the  poor  monk,  accused  before  king  and  counsel 
at  Worms  for  his  teachings,  in  all  humility  of  soul  declared  he 
could  not  recant,  and  ended  with  the  words,  "  Here  I  stand  ;  I 
can  do  no  otherwise,  God  help  me,  Amen !  " 

If  you  had  felt  this  holy  possession,  you  would  not  blame 
nor  ridicule  nor  calumniate  us.  Truly,  we  are  not  the 
masters,  but  the  servants  of  the  word.  It  was  an  humble 
confession  when  Maximilian  Robespierre  said,  "  I  am  Lib- 
erty's slave." 

I,  too,  will  make  a  confession.  It  was  not  in  the  joy  of  my 
heart  that  I  left  all  the  dear  things  that  bloomed  and  smiled 
on  me  in  the  fatherland.  My  mother  loved  me  dearly, 
for  one.  I  went,  I  knew  not  why  ;  I  went,  because  I  must. 
Later  I  was  sad  at  heart  ;  and  before  the  revolution  of 
July  I  had  been  so  long  a  prophet  that  I  was  almost 
consumed  by  the  fire  within  me — that  my  heart,  with  the 
mighty  words  that  swelled  it,  was  grown  as  weary  as  a 
woman  in  travail. 

I  thought  :  I  am  not  needed  now  ;  I  will  live  for  myself, 
and  write  sweet  poems,  comedies,  and  tales,  bright  and  merry 
conceits,  with  which  my  brain  is  full,  and  will  again  wander 
peacefully  in  the  land  of  poetry,  where  I  lived  so  happily  as  a 
child. 

I  could  not  have  chosen  a  better  spot  to  carry  out  my  plan. 
It  was  a  little  villa  close  by  the  sea,  near  Havre-de-Grace,  in 
Normandy.  A  wonderful  outlook  upon  the  North  Sea,  an 
almost  unchanging,  though  simple  prospect  ;  to-day  a  dark 
storm,  to-morrow  smiling  calm  ;  and  overhead  the  white  clouds, 
gigantic  and  strange,  as  if  they  had  been  the  shades  of  the 
Normans  who  once  plowed  their  wild  way  through  these 
waters.  Beneath  my  window  grew  the  loveliest  flowers  and 
plants  :  roses  casting  loving  looks  at  me,  red  pinks  offering 
their  modest  perfume,  and  laurel  climbing  up  to  me,  almost 
into  my  room,  like  the  fame  that  pursued  me.  Yes  ;  once  I 
ran  eagerly  after  Daphne  ;  now  Daphne  followed  me,  like  a 
wanton,  and  sought  me  in  my  chamber.  What  I  longed  for 
once  was  distasteful  to  me  ;  I  would  have  had  rest,  and  that 


214  The  "Salon." 

no  man  should  speak  my  name,  at  least  in  Germany.  And  I 
would  have  made  quiet  songs,  only  for  myself,  or,  perhaps,  to 
repeat  them  to  some  hidden  nightingale.  All  was  well  at  first ; 
my  soul  was  freed  from  the  demon  of  poesy  ;  familiar  forms 
and  golden  pictures  rose  again  to  my  memory ;  and  I  was 
again  dreamily  happy,  intoxicated  with  fable,  spellbound  as  of 
yore,  and  would  have  set  down  with  a  quiet  pen  all  I  felt  and 
thought.  And  I  began. 

Everyone  knows  that  in  this  mood  a  man  does  not  always 
sit  still  in  his  room,  but  often  walks  out  into  the  open  fields, 
with  a  full  heart  and  glowing  cheeks,  not  seeing  what  is  before 
his  eyes.  So  it  was  with  me  ;  and,  without  knowing  how,  I 
found  myself  on  the  highroad  from  Havre  ;  before  me,  several 
farm  wagons  were  lumbering  along,  filled  with  all  manner  of  old 
boxes  and  chests,  antique  household  goods,  women  and  chil- 
dren. The  men  walked  beside  them  ;  and  my  surprise  was 
great  when  I  heard  them  speak  ;  they  spoke  German,  with  a 
Swabian  accent.  I  saw  at  once  that  they  were  exiles  ;  and  as  I 
looked  closer  at  them,  there  shot  through  me  a  feeling  such  as 
I  never  had  had  in  my  life  ;  all  the  blood  rushed  to  my  heart, 
and  beat  against  my  sides  as  though  it  would  gush  forth,  and  my 
breath  stopped  short.  Yes,  it  was  the  fatherland  that  had  met 
me  :  in  those  wagons  sat  blond  Germany,  with  her  earnest 
eyes,  her  sad  and  thoughtful  face,  and  in  the  corners  of  each 
mouth,  that  troubled  look  of  constraint  that  used  to  tease  and 
anger  me,  but  now  moved  me  sadly.  For  in  the  joy  of  my 
youth  I  had  often  railed  at  the  perversity  and  philistinism  of 
my  home,  and  quarreled  with  the  easy,  burgomaster-like  snug- 
ness,  the  snail-like  moderation  of  the  fatherland,  as  people 
often  quarrel  in  large  families  ;  but  all  such  ideas  were  driven 
from  my  soul  when  I  saw  the  fatherland  in  want — in  want  in  a 
strange  country.  Its  foibles  became  suddenly  dear  and  respect- 
able in  my  eyes  ;  I  forgave  its  cockneyisms,  and  held  out  my 
hand  ;  I  held  out  my  hand  to  each  of  the  wanderers,  as  if 
giving  my  hand  to  the  whole  fatherland  in  token  of  renewed 
love  ;  and  we  spoke  German.  They  were  delighted  to  hear 
the  sound  in  a  strange  country  ;  the  shadow  of  care  left  their 
faces,  and  they  almost  smiled.  Even  the  women,  some  of 
them  right  pretty,  sent  a  pleasant  "  God  save  you  "  to  me 
from  the  wagons  ;  the  little  boys  blushed  and  nodded  politely, 
and  all  the  babies  crowed  at  me  out  of  their  dear  little  toothless 
mouths.  And  why  have  you  left  Germany  ?  I  asked  these 
poor  people.  "  It  is  a  good  country,  and  we  would  gladly 


'Patriotism. 


have  stayed  there,"  they  answered  ;  "  but  we  could  not  get  on 
any  longer."  At  this  I  felt  in  my  heart  a  deep  grief,  a  dark 
sorrow,  a  dull  despair,  that  I  cannot  describe  in  words.  I 
who  had  been  exulting  as  a  conqueror,  now  felt  sick  and  weak 
as  a  broken  man.  It  was  no  effect  of  suddenly  aroused 
patriotism.  I  felt  it  was  something  nobler  and  better.  Any- 
thing calling  itself  patriotism  has  for  a  long  time  been  fated  in 
my  eyes.  I  had  conceived  a  disgust  for  the  thing  itself,  after 
seeing  the  black  fools  who  masquerade  in  its  name  and  make 
patriotism  a  trade,  with  a  uniform  of  its  own,  and,  divided  into 
masters,  workmen,  and  apprentices,  with  passwords  and  signs, 
go  begging  through  the  country. 

There  is  a  strange  thing  about  patriotism — the  real  love  of 
one's  country.  A  man  may  love  his  country  and  live  to  be 
eighty  years  old  in  it,  and  yet  not  have  learned  to  know  it ; 
but  then  he  must  have  stayed  at  home.  It  is  in  winter  that  we 
learn  of  spring,  and  the  best  May  carols  are  written  by  the 
fireside.  Love  of  liberty  is  a  dungeon  flower,  and  the  worth 
of  liberty  is  best  learned  in  prison.  So  love  of  the  German 
land  begins  at  its  frontiers,  and,  above  all,  at  sight  of  the  woes 
of  Germany  in  a  foreign  country. 

I  assure  you  I  am  no  patriot,  and  if  I  wept  that  day,  it  was 
at  the  little  girl.  It  was  near  evening,  and  a  little  German  girl, 
whom  I  had  seen  among  the  emigrants,  stood  alone  upon  the 
shore,  buried  in  her  thoughts,  and  looking  out  upon  the  wide 
sea.  She  might  have  been  eight  years  old — her  hair  in  two  neat 
braids,  her  short  Swabian  frock  of  prettily  striped  flannel  ; 
she  had  a  pale,  delicate  face  and  great  earnest  eyes  ;  and 
in  a  low,  timid,  yet  curious  tone,  she  asked  me  if  that  was 
the  sea. 

Late  into  the  night  I  stood  by  the  sea  and  wept.  I  am  not 
ashamed  of  those  tears.  Achilles  wept  by  the  sea,  and  the 
silver-footed  mother  rose  from  the  waves  to  comfort  him.  I 
too  heard  a  voice  from  the  waves,  less  consoling — stirring, 
rather  imploring,  yet  full  of  wisdom.  For  the  sea  knows  all 
things — the  stars  by  night  tell  it  the  secrets  of  heaven  ;  in 
its  depths,  beside  the  sunken  fabulous  treasures,  lie  the  old, 
long-silent  stories  of  the  earth  ;  on  every  coast  it  listens  with 
its  thousand  curious  wavy  ears  ;  and  the  streams  that  flow  into 
it  bring  the  messages  they  have  gathered  in  the  farthest  inland 
or  caught  from  the  gossiping  little  brooks  and  mountain  rills. 
But  when  the  sea  reveals  its  secrets  and  whispers  into  your 
heart  the  great  world-redeeming  word,  then  farewell,  rest — 


216  The  "Salon. " 

farewell,  quiet  dreams  !     Farewell,  novels  and  plays,  so  happily 
begun,  and  now  so  hardly  to  be  completed  ! 

The  colors  of  the  golden  angel  have  grown  dry  on  my 
palette  from  that  hour.  Nothing  upon  it  has  kept  fresh  but  a 
bright  red,  like  blood,  fit  only  to  paint  red  lions.  Yes — my 
next  book  shall  be  a  red  lion,  which  a  kind  public  must  excuse 
for  the  sake  of  this  confession. 


CHAPTER   IV. 
tfrencb  translation  of  tbe  "•Reteebfloer." 

PARIS,  April  21,  1833. 
To  Maximilian  Heine : 

Give  me  your  advice,  as  a  doctor,  what  to  do  for  headaches, 
which  I  have  had  for  two  months  worse  than  ever.  They  may 
be  the  result  of  great  mental  disturbance.  Not  that  I  have 
been  working  so  hard  lately,  for  the  annoyances  I  have  suf- 
fered from  political  affairs  have  greatly  hindered  my  work. 
My  condition  is  only  apparently  flourishing,  and  I  am  almost 
overwhelmed  by  excessive  marks  of  respect.  You  have  no 
idea  what  a  colossal  reputation  I  am  burdened  with  here — but 
it  is  a  burden  like  any  other,  and  brings  plenty  of  trouble, 
anger,  embarrassment,  and  disturbances. 

I  can  understand  now  why  all  celebrated  men  have  led 
unhappy  lives.  Advise  me,  dear  Max,  whether  I  ought  to  take 
sea  baths  this  year.  The  sea  has  not  yet  been  bad,  really  bad 
for  me.  But  it  did  not  help  me  much  last  year.  At  any  rate, 
I  cannot  leave  Paris  before  August,  for  I  am  getting  the 
"  Reisebilder  "  translated  into  French,  and  my  translator  is  so 
incompetent  that  I  do  most  of  the  work  myself.  Then  I  have 
a  series  of  articles  on  Germany  to  write — promised  work, 
which  I  would  give  up  if  I  did  not  need  an  enormous  amount 
of  money  here.  Spent  an  enormous  sum  this  last  year. 


As  I  availed  myself  of  the  late  Loeve-Weimar's  talent  for 
translation  in  various  articles,  I  must  express  my  surprise  that 
in  our  collaboration  he  never  made  me  feel  my  want  of  knowl- 
edge of  French  idioms  of  speech,  or  his  own  linguistic 
superiority.  When  we  had  got  an  article  written,  after  hours 
of  working  together,  he  would  praise  my  familiarity  with  the 
spirit  of  French  idioms  so  earnestly,  and  seemed  so  astonished, 
that  I  was  finally  persuaded  that  I  had  done  all  the  transla- 


218          French  Translation  of  the  '"T^eisebilder." 

tion,  especially  as  the  cunning  flatterer  often  declared  that  he 
knew  but  little  German. 

It  was  a  curious  freak  of  Loeve-Weimar's  that  one  who 
understood  German  as  well  as  I  did  should  still  assure  every- 
one that  he  did  not  understand  German. 


PARIS,  May  20,  1834. 

It  will  always  be  a  hard  question  to  decide  how  a  German 
author  should  be  translated  into  French.  Should  certain  ideas 
or  pictures  be  omitted  if  they  do  not  suit  the  civilized  taste 
of  the  French,  and  might  produce  an  unpleasant  and  even 
a  ridiculous  effect  ?  Or  should  the  unlicked  German,  with  all 
his  transrhenish  originality,  all  his  Germanisms,  fantastically 
colored  and  overburdened  with  hyper-romantic  ornament,  be 
introduced  to  the  fine  world  of  Paris  ?  For  my  part,  I  do  not 
think  unlicked  German  ought  to  be  translated  into  civilized 
French ;  and  so  I  present  myself  in  my  native  barbarian 
shape,  much  after  the  fashion  of  those  Charruas  savages  whom 
you-  received  so  cordially  last  year.  I  am  a  chief,  like  the 
great  Tacabua.  He  is  dead  now,  and  his  mortal  remains  are 
carefully  preserved  in  the  museum  of  the  Jardin  des  Plantes, 
that  zoological  Pantheon  of  the  animal  kingdom. 

This  book  is  a  World's  Fair.  Walk  in  without  fear.  I  am 
not  so  bad  as  I  look.  I  have  only  daubed  my  face  with  fierce 
colors  to  frighten  my  enemies  in  the  fight.  I  am  really  as 
mild  as  a  lamb.  So  be  easy,  and  give  me  your  hand.  You 
may  handle  my  weapons,  even  my  quiver  and  arrows,  for  1 
have  blunted  the  points,  as  we  savages  do  when  we  approach  i 
sacred  place.  Between  ourselves,  the  arrows  were  not  onl) 
pointed  but  poisoned.  Now  they  are  quite  innocent  anc 
harmless,  and  you  can  amuse  yourself  with  their  colorec 
feathers,  and  your  children  might  take  them  for  playthings. 

The  style,  the  trains  of  thought,  the  transitions,  the  grotesqu< 
fancies,  the  queer  expressions,  in  short  the  whole  character  o 
the  German  original  is,  as  far  as  possible,  repeated  word  fo 
word  in  this  translation.  Beauties  of  thought,  elegance,  charm 
and  grace  have  been  everywhere  pitilessly  sacrificed  to  litera, 
truth.  It  is  a  German  book  in  French  ;  and  this  book  make 
no  pretensions  to  pleasing  the  French  public,  but  hopes  t, 
make  that  public  acquainted  with  a  foreign  originality.  I' 


"  Aristocracy. "  219 

short,  I  wish  to  instruct,  and  not  merely  to  amuse.  We  Ger- 
mans have  translated  French  authors  in  that  manner  ;  and 
have  thus  gained  the  advantage  of  new  points  of  view,  forms  of 
words,  and  turns  of  speech.  A  like  acquisition  will  do  you  no 
harm.  Though  resolved  to  make  you  acquainted  with  the 
character  of  this  exotic  book,  I  did  not  much  care  to  give  it  to 
you  without  abridgment.  In  the  first  place  because  various 
passages  rest  on  local  or  temporary  allusions,  quibbles  on 
words,  and  such  like  particulars,  and  therefore  could  not  be 
reproduced  in  French  ;  and  further,  because  various  parts  of 
it  are  aimed  in  a  hostile  spirit  at  persons  unknown  here,  which, 
if  repeated  in  French,  might  give  rise  to  disagreeable  misunder- 
standings. 

With  the  exception  of  a  few  leaves,  this  book  was  written 
before  the  revolution  of  July.  At  that  time  the  political  pres- 
sure in  Germany  had  produced  an  universal  dead  silence ;  all 
spirits  had  sunk  into  a  lethargy  of  despair  ;  and  anyone  who 
ventured  to  speak  expressed  himself  with  the  more  passion, 
the  more  he  doubted  of  the  triumph  of  liberty,  and  the  more 
bitterly  the  party  of  the  priesthood  and  the  aristocracy  assailed 
him.  I  use  the  words  "  priesthood  "  and  "  aristocracy  "  from 
habit ;  for  while  I  was  the  sole  opponent  of  these  champions 
of  the  past,  I  always  used  these  phrases.  The  words  were  then 
understood  by  the  whole  world  ;  and  I  must  confess  I  then 
still  kept  to  the  phrases  of  1789,  and  indulged  in  a  luxury  of 
tirades  against  the  clergy  and  rank,  or  as  I  called  them,  priest- 
hood and  aristocracy.  But  I  have  moved  on  since  then  ;  and 
my  dear  Germans,  who,  roused  by  the  cannon  of  July,  have 
followed  in  my  footsteps  and  now  speak  the  lauguage  of  1789 
or  even  of  1793,  are  now  so  far  removed  from  me  that  they 
have  lost  sight  of  me,  and  are  persuaded  that  I  am  behind 
them.  I  am  accused  of  too  great  moderation  and  of  an  un- 
derstanding with  the  aristocracy  ;  and  I  see  the  dawn  of  the  day 
when  I  shall  be  charged  with  conniving  with  the  priesthood. 
The  fact  is  that  to-day  I  understand  by  the  word  "  aristo- 
cracy," not  only  rank  by  birth,  but  all,  whatever  name  they 
bear,  who  live  at  the  cost  of  the  people. 

The  excellent  phrase,  which,  like  so  many  good  things,  we 
owe  to  Saint-Simonism — I  exploitation  de  I'homme  par  I'homme — 
dispenses  us  from  all  declamation  against  privilege  of  birth. 
Our  old  war  cry  against  the  priesthood  is  replaced  by  a  better 
word.  It  is  no  longer  a  question  of  pulling  down  the  old 
church,  but  of  building  the  new  ;  and  so  far  from  desiring  to 


220          French  Translation  of  the  '"T^ei&ebilder." 

destroy  the  priesthood,  we  think  rather  to-day  of  making  priests 
of  ourselves. 

Doubtless  the  period  of  negation  is  not  over  for  Germany  ; 
it  is  but  begun.  In  France,  on  the  other  hand,  it  seems  draw- 
ing toward  its  end.  At  any  rate  it  seems  to  me  that  here  men 
ought  to  devote  themselves  to  more  positive  tasks,  and  seek  to 
set  up  again  whatever  of  good  and  fair  the  past  has  left  us. 

From  a  sort  of  author's  superstition,  I  have  retained  the 
German  title  of  my  book.  Under  this  name,  "  Reisebilder,"  it 
made  its  way  in  the  world — with  better  results  than  the  author 
himself — and  I  wished  it  to  have  the  same  lucky  title  in  the 
French  edition. 


CHAPTER  V. 
Be  railemasne. 

AMONG  those  that  I  saw  soon  after  my  arrival  in  Paris  was 
Victor  Bohain  ;  and  I  recall  with  pleasure  this  jovial,  clever 
man,  whose  charming  society  did  much  to  banish  the  clouds 
from  the  German  dreamer's  brow,  and  breathe  into  his 
wounded  heart  something  of  the  gayety  of  French  life.  He 
had  already  founded  the  Europe  Litte'raire,  and,  as  its 
editor,  applied  to  me  to  write  some  articles  on  Germany  after 
the  manner  of  Mme.  de  Stae'l.  I  promised  to  furnish  some 
articles,  but  stated  plainly  that  I  should  write  them  in  quite  a 
different  style.  "  It  is  all  one  to  me  ;  "  was  his  laughing 
answer.  "  Like  Voltaire,  I  approve  all  styles  except  the  genre 
ennuyeux."  And  that  I,  poor  German,  might  not  fall  into  the 
genre  ennuyeux,  friend  Bohain  often  invited  me  to  his  table, 
and  gave  me  plenty  of  champagne.  No  one  knew  better  than 
he  how  to  arrange  a  dinner,  where  there  was  to  be  found  not 
only  the  best  cooking  but  conversation  also  ;  no  one  did  the 
honors  as  host,  or  made  all  go  off  so  well  as  Victor  Bohain — 
and  he  was  right  to  charge  the  shareholders  of  the  Europe 
Litttraire  a  hundred  thousand  francs  for  expenses  of  enter- 
taining. His  wife  was  very  handsome,  and  had  a  pretty  grey- 
hound called  Jiji.  The  man's  wooden  leg  added  to  his  humor  ; 
and  as  he  stumped  delighted  round  the  table  to  fill  his  guests' 
glasses,  he  looked  like  Vulcan  taking  Hebe's  place  at  a  carouse 
of  the  gods.  Where  is  he  now  ?  It  is  long  since  I  heard  of 
him.  The  last  time  I  saw  him  was  some  ten  years  ago,  in  a 
coffee  room  at  Granville.  He  had  come  over  from  England, 
where  he  had  been  to  study  the  colossal  English  national  debt 
and  forget  his  own  small  private  ones,  to  this  little  port  of 
lower  Normandy.  And  there  I  found  him,  sitting  with  a  bottle 
of  champagne,  and  a  squat  philistine  with  a  low  forehead  and 
gaping  mouth,  to  whom  he  was  unfolding  a  plan  by  which,  as 
Bohain  proved  by  the  plainest  figures,  there  was  a  million  to 
be  made.  Bohain's  speculative  ideas  were  always  on  a  large 
scale  ;  and  when  he  proposed  a  scheme,  there  was  always  a 


222  T)e  I'^llemagne. 


million  in  sight — never  less  than  a  million.  His  friends  called 
him  Messer  Million — as  Marco  Polo  was  called  in  Venice, 
when  on  his  return  from  the  East  he  told  his  gaping  country- 
men under  the  arcades  of  San  Marco  about  the  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  millions  of  inhabitants  he  had  seen  in  his  travels 
through  China,  Tartary,  India,  etc.  Modern  geography  has 
re-established  the  credit  of  the  renowned  Venetian,  who  long 
passed  for  a  boaster  ;  and  we  must  say  for  our  Parisian  Messer 
Million,  that  his  industrial  projects  were  always  conceived  with 
a  sublime  accuracy,  and  failed  of  success  only  through  mis- 
chance. Many  brought  in  a  great  deal  of  money,  when  they 
fell  into  the  hands  of  men  who  did  not  do  the  honors  of  a  plan 
as  well  as  Victor  Bohain,  and  had  not  his  skill  in  promoting  a 
project.  Even  the  Europe  Litte'raire  was  a  grand  concep- 
tion, whose  success  seemed  assured  ;  and  I  have  never  under- 
stood its  failure.  The  evening  before  its  trouble  began,  Victor 
Bohain  gave  a  brilliant  ball  in  the  publication-rooms  of  the 
paper,  where  he  and  his  three  hundred  shareholders  danced, 
as  Leonidas  and  his  three  hundred  Spartans  did  on  the  day 
before  the  struggle  at  Thermopylae.  Whenever  I  look  at 
David's  picture  in  the  Louvre,  representing  that  heroic  scene 
of  antiquity,  I  think  of  the  last  dance  of  Victor  Bohain  ;  and 
see  him  standing  on  one  leg,  like  the  gallant  king  in  David's 
picture.  Traveler  !  When  you  come  down  the  Chauss^e 
d'Antin  to  the  Boulevard,  and  find  yourself  in  a  dirty  lane 
called  the  Rue  basse  du  Rempart,  remember  that  you  are  in 
the  Thermopylae  of  the  Europe  Litte'raire,  where  Victor  Bohain 
heroically  fell  with  his  three  hundred  shareholders. 

The  essays  which,  as  I  have  said,  I  promised  that  journal 
and  published  in  it,  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  speaking  more 
at  large  about  Germany  ;  and  I  eagerly  embraced  the  proposal 
of  the  editor  of  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  to  write  for  it  a 
series  of  articles  on  the  intellectual  development  of  my  native 
land.  This  editor  was  anything  but  such  another  gay  com- 
panion as  Messer  Million  ;  his  foible  being  rather  that  of  being 
too  much  in  earnest.  By  conscientious  and  honorable  toil  he 
has  since  made  his  journal  a  real  review  of  the  two  worlds — 
that  is,  a  review  which  circulates  in  all  civilized  countries, 
where  it  represents  the  best  spirit  of  French  literature.  In 
it  I  published  my  new  works  on  the  intellectual  and  social 
progress  of  my  country.  The  great  echo  that  these  papers 
awakened  has  given  me  courage  to  collect  and  complete  them. 

I  desire  to  state,  not  merely   the  purpose,   tendency,  and 


Mme.  de  Statt.  223 


internal  aim  of  this  book,  but  its  origin  also — that  all  may 
better  judge  how  much  confidence  and  respect  my  opinions 
merit.  I  did  not  write  in  the  style  of  Mme.  de  Stae'l  ;  and  if 
I  tried  not  to  be  tiresome,  I  renounced  from  the  first  all  effects 
of  style  and  phrase,  such  as  are  to  be  found  in  Mme.  de  Stae'l, 
the  greatest  author  of  the  French  empire.  Yes  ;  the  author  of 
"  Corinne  "  surpasses  all  her  contemporaries,  in  my  judgment, 
and  I  cannot  sufficiently  admire  the  brilliant  fireworks  of  her 
style  ;  but  these  fireworks  unfortunately  leave  behind  them  a 
noisome  darkness  ;  and  her  genius  is  not  so  sexless  as  genius 
should  be  according  to  Mme.  de  StaeTs  earlier  opinions.  Her 
genius  is  a  woman,  with  all  a  woman's  failings  and  moods  ; 
and  it  was  my  duty  as  a  man  to  oppose  this  cancan  of  genius. 
It  was  the  more  my  duty,  because  her  opinions  in  her  book 
"  de  1'Allemagne  "  are  based  on  facts  that  were  unknown  to 
the  French,  and  had  all  the  charm  of  novelty — for  example, 
all  that  relates  to  German  philosophy  and  the  romantic  school. 
I  think  I  gave  in  my  book  a  most  honest  account  of  the  former 
especially  ;  and  time  has  proved  what  seemed  unheard  of  and 
incredible  when  I  announced  it. 

I  desired  to  give  a  true  account  of  German  philosophy,  and 
I  think  I  did  so.  I  frankly  revealed  the  secrets  of  the  school, 
which  were  known  only  to  the  higher  classes  ;  and  people  in 
this  country  were  astounded  at  the  revelations.  I  remember 
that  Pierre  Leroux  came  to  me  and  confessed  that  he  had 
always  believed  German  philosophy  to  be  a  sort  of  mystical 
cloud,  and  German  philosophers  a  kind  of  pious  seers  breath- 
ing nothing  but  piety.  It  is  true,  I  could  not  give  the  French 
a  full  account  of  our  various  systems — I  was  too  fond  of  them 
to  bore  them  so  far — but  I  showed  them  the  idea  that  lies  at 
the  bottom  of  all  these  systems,  and  which  is  the  opposite  of 
all  which  we  have  hitherto  called  piety.  Philosophy  has  in 
Germany  waged  the  same  war  with  Christianity  which  she 
waged  in  the  Grecian  world  against  the  old  mythology  ;  and 
was  again  victorious  here. 

I  have  given  nothing  to  the  public  on  the  subject  of  Ger- 
many since  the  above  mentioned  book. 


CHAPTER    VI. 
1Tn  3Foref0n  Xante. 

A  LOVELY  star  is  rising  on  my  night, 

A  star  with  sweetest  comfort  smiling  down, 

And  promising  new  life  to  me — 

Oh,  be  not  false  ! 

E'en  as  the  ocean  swells  beneath  the  moon, 
So  doth  my  soul  heave  joyously  and  wild 
Aloft  to  meet  thy  kindly  light — 
Oh,  be  not  false  ! 


Like  to  Merlin,  foolish  sage, 
Unhappy  necromancer,  I 
Now  at  length  am  fettered  fast 
In  my  proper  magic  circle. 

Fettered  fast  before  her  feet 
I  am  lying,  and  forever 
Gazing  up  into  her  eyes  ; 
And  the  hours  fly  so  swiftly. 

Hours,  days,  and  weeks  together 
Fly  as  swiftly  as  a  dream  ; 
What  I  speak,  I  hardly  know, 
And  know  not  what  she  has  spoken. 

Oft  I  dream  I  feel  her  laying 
Both  her  lips  against  my  mouth — 
Then,  within  my  inmost  soul 
I  can  feel  the  fires  burning. 

234 


{Memories.  225 


Songless  was  I,  and  oppressed 
For  long — but  now  again  I  sing  ; 
As  tears,  that  all  at  once  pour  forth, 
All  at  once  pours  forth  my  song. 

In  numbers  can  I  once  more  sorrow 
O'er  deepest  love  and  deepest  torture, 
O'er  hearts  that  one  another  wounded, 
And  broke  at  last,  when  they  were  parted. 

Oft  I  dream  I  feel  the  breezes 
O'er  my  head,  in  German  forests. 
They  whisper  we  shall  meet  hereafter — 
"Tis  but  a  vision — they  are  withered. 

Oft  I  dream  I  hear  the  voices 

Of  German  nightingales  re-echo — 

How  sweet  the  tones  come  stealing  o'er  me  ! 

'Tis  but  a  vision — they  are  silent. 

Where  are  the  roses,  whose  caresses 
Once  enthralled  me  ?     Every  blossom 
Long  has  withered  !     Ghostly  mournful 
Is  their  odor  in  my  fancy. 


Driven  forth  from  place  to  place, 
And  yet  thou  knowest  not  why — 
The  breezes  speak  a  tender  word ; 
Amazed  thou  lookest  round. 

The  love  that  thou  hast  left  behind, 
It  softly  calls,  "  Return  ; 
Oh,  come  again,  I  love  thee  so, 
Thou  art  my  only  joy  !  " 

Yet  onward,  onward,  without  rest — 
Thou  darest  not  to  stay  ; 
What  thou  didst  once  so  dearly  love, 
Thou  ne'er  shall  see  again. 


226  In  Foreign  Lands. 


"Oh,  the  most  enchanting  poet, 
He  whose  songs  can  so  delight  us  ! 
Could  we  only  have  him  near  us, 
On  his  lips  to  shower  caresses  !  " 

And  while  these  enchanting  ladies 
Speak  in  accents  so  enchanting, 
With  a  hundred  miles  between  us, 
I  must  languish  among  strangers. 

Nought  avails  to  us,  poor  Northmen, 
That  the  South  has  fairest  weather ; 
And  with  kisses  that  are  dreamed  of 
Starving  hearts  go  still  a-hungering. 


I  dreamed  upon  a  lovely  child, 
She  had  her  hair  in  braids  ; 
We  sat  by  the  green  linden  tree, 
In  the  blue  summer  night. 

We  loved  full  well,  and  kissed  full  long, 
And  talked  of  joy  and  sorrow. 
In  heaven  sighed  the  yellow  stars, 
And  looked  on  us  with  envy. 

Then  I  awoke,  and  stared  around  ; 
I  was  alone  in  darkness. 
In  the  heavens,  mute  and  careless, 
I  saw  the  stars  all  shining. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
flfcatbflfce  Tbefne. 

PARIS,  March  22,  1835. 
To  J.  H.  Detmold: 

You  have  no  idea  how  many  agitating  events  are  going  on 
around  me  ;  how  much  trouble,  madness,  mortal  strife,  love, 
hate,  and  +  are  buzzing  in  my  years.  What  you  hear  about 
me  in  Germany  is  only  a  feeble  echo  of  the  conflict  here.  I 
beg  you  to  write  fully  and  often  ;  I  promise  to  do  as  much  in 
later  and  more  quiet  times.  How  would  it  be  if  you  wrote  me 
every  week  a  very  long  letter  on  the  political  and  literary 
events  in  Germany,  which  I  could  translate  regularly  and  print 
in  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  ?  I  often  think  of  you,  and 
count  you  among  the  few  who  have  always  followed  my  songs 
and  writings,  and  who  perfectly  understand  and  appreciate  my 
latest  ideas. 

PARIS,  April  u,  1835. 
To  Atigust  Lew  aid : 

How  can  I  apologize  for  not  writing  to  you  ?  And  you  are 
kind  enough  to  offer  me  the  good  excuse  that  your  letter  must 
have  been  lost.  No,  I  will  confess  the  whole  truth.  I  duly 
received  it — but  at  a  time  when  I  was  up  to  my  neck  in  a  love 
affair  that  I  have  not  yet  got  out  of.  Since  October  nothing 
has  been  of  any  account  with  me  that  was  not  directly  con- 
nected with  this.  I  have  neglected  everything,  I  see  nobody, 
and  give  a  sigh  whenever  I  think  of  my  friends.  ...  So  I 
have  often  sighed  to  think  that  you  must  misunderstand  my 
silence,  yet  I  could  not  fairly  set  myself  down  to  write.  And 
that  is  all  I  can  tell  you  to-day  ;  for  my  cheeks  are  in  such  a 
flame,  and  my  brain  reels  so  with  the  scent  of  flowers,  that  I 
am  in  no  condition  to  talk  sensibly  to  you. 

Did  you  ever  read  King  Solomon's  Song  ?  Just  read  it,  and 
you  will  there  find  all  I  could  say  to-day. 

Wait  a  little.  A  great  change  will  shortly  come  over  me  ; 
and  then  I  too,  as  you  desire,  will  write  for  the  comedians. 


228  CMatbilde  Heine. 


My  pieces  will  certainly  be  played,  if  the  precaution  is  taken 
to  announce  my  tragedies  as  comedies  and  my  comedies  as 
tragedies. 

Read  King  Solomon's  Song.  I  recommend  the  man  to  your 
notice. 

PARIS,  July  2,  1835. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 

"  Before  he  sings,  and  ere  he  stops, 
The  poet  has  to  live." 

I  need  both  parts  of  this  verse,  my  dearest  friend,  as  my 
excuse.  My  life  has  been  such  a  stormy  one  for  these  four 
months,  and  in  the  last  three  especially  the  waves  of  life  have 
surged  so  roughly  over  my  head  that  I  could  hardly  think  of 
you,  and  still  less  write  you.  Fool  that  I  was,  I  thought  the 
days  of  passion  were  over  for  me — that  I  should  never  again 
be  dragged  into  the  whirlpool  of  life,  but  should  be  like  the 
gods,  all  rest,  contemplation,  and  quiet ;  and  behold  !  I  am 
again  raging  about  like  a  man,  and  like  a  young  man.  But 
now,  thanks  to  my  unfailing  strength  of  mind,  my  thoughts  are 
under  control,  my  excited  feelings  calmed  again,  and  I  am 
living  quietly  and  peacefully  in  the  chateau  of  a  fair  friend* 
near  St.  Germain,  in  a  delightful  circle  of  noble  people  of 
noble  natures. 

I  think  my  soul  is  now  at  last  purified  of  all  dross.  My 
poetry  will  be  better,  my  books  more  harmonious.  I  know  one 
thing:  for  anything  doubtful  and  unworthy,  anything  that  is 
common  or  vile,  I  now  feel  a  perfect  loathing. 

In  such  a  mood,  you  will  readily  see  that  many  half-finished 
works  must  remain  uncompleted,  at  least,  for  the  present.  But 
I  hope  to  write  and  do  this  year  many  good  things,  at  least 
better  than  my  earlier  ones.  I  shall  very  shortly  go  to  Bou- 
logne-sur-Mer,  which  lovely  little  seaport  is,  as  you  know, 
the  best  place  for  work  with  me.  There  I  mean  to  write 
a  splendid  book,  that  shall  delight  the  world.  I  have  got 
free  from  all  newspaper  trammels  ;  and,  in  spite  of  the  enor- 
mous expenses  I  have  already  been  at  during  the  year,  I 
hope  my  retreat  will  not  be  disturbed  by  any  financial 
annoyances. 

*  The  Princess  Belgiojoso. 


Platonics,  229 

JULY  26. 

The  "  Literature  "  will  be  one  of  my  best  books,  and  in  its 
new  shape  and  by  your  attention  will  rejoice  in  a  new  popu- 
larity. You  are  in  the  habit,  my  dear  Campe,  of  publishing 
new  books,  and  judge  of  a  book's  success  by  the  first  year. 
I  am  the  only  one  of  your  classics,  the  only  one,  who  has 
proved  a  lasting,  reprintable  literary  article — but  why  should 
I  sing  you  an  old  song  which  you  know  ?  You  know  as  well 
as  I  that  my  books,  no  matter  which  one,  will  yet  be  reprinted 
many  times — and  I  beg  you  once  more  to  act  like  a  Christian 
in  the  size  of  the  edition.  Oh,  dearest  Campe,  I  would  give 
something  if  you  had  more  religion  !  But  reading  my  books 
has  greatly  injured  your  soul ;  the  tender,  trusting  spirit  you 
once  possessed  is  gone  ;  you  no  longer  believe  in  being  saved 
by  good  works  ;  you  care  for  nothing  but  trash  ;  you  have  be- 
come a  Pharisee,  who  sees  in  books  only  their  types  and  not 
their  spirit — a  Sadducee  who  does  not  believe  in  the  resurrec- 
tion of  the  book  or  in  any  new  edition  ;  an  atheist  that 
secretly  blasphemes  my  holy  name.  Oh,  repent  and  reform  ! 


BOULOGNE-SUR-MER,  September  27,  1835. 
To  Heinrich  Laube : 

Thanks,  thanks  from  my  heart  for  all  the  untiring  love  you 
show  me.  If  I  do  not  often  give  any  sign  of  life,  do  not  for 
Heaven's  sake  conclude  that  I  am  indifferent  to  you.  You  are 
the  only  person  in  Germany  who  interests  me  in  all  respects.  I 
feel  this  deeply,  and  for  that  very  reason  cannot  often  write  to 
you.  I  am  too  deeply  moved  when  I  take  my  pen  to  write  to 
you  ;  and,  as  you  must  have  found  out,  I  am  one  of  those 
people  who  are  shy  of  all  emotions  and  avoid  them  as  much  as 
I  can.  But,  ah,  in  spite  of  all  our  care  an  overmastering  emo- 
tion seizes  us  often  enough,  depriving  us  of  that  clearness  of 
perception  and  thought  which  I  do  not  like  to  lose.  As  soon 
as  our  minds  are  saddened,  our  spirits  moved,  we  are  no  longer 
companions  of  the  gods,  This  companionship — I  may  confess 
it  now — I  long  enjoyed,  and  wandered  freely  in  the  light ;  but 
for  these  nine  moons  wild  storms  have  again  raged  in  my 
bosom  and  deep  shadows  have  settled  round  me.  This  con- 
fession may  explain  my  inactivity.  I  am  now  busy  trying  to 
quiet  my  excited  soul,  and,  if  I  cannot  reach  the  clear  light,  at 
least  to  free  myself  from  this  thick  darkness. 

I  received  your  letter,  sent  by  a  homeopath,  but  unfor- 


230  Mathilde  Heine. 


tunately  I  could  not  see  the  bearer,  as  I  was  in  the  country, 
near  St.  Germain,  at  the  chateau  of  the  fairest,  noblest,  and 
cleverest  of  women — with  whom,  however,  I  am  not  in  love.  I 
am  under  the  curse  of  falling  in  love  with  only  the  meanest 
and  silliest  women.  Think  how  that  must  enrage  a  man  who 
is  proud  and  clever. 

I  was  much  troubled  about  you  during  your  imprisonment ; 
but  though  your  letter  was  sad,  it  was  a  cordial  restorative  to 
me.  I  hope  it  will  be  all  right  with  you,  though  I  fear  you  will 
not  escape  the  lot  of  people  of  our  sort.  You  are  one  of  those 
fighters  bound  to  die  in  the  arena. 

I  have  a  grievance  against  you.  I  am  so  unwilling  to  think 
of  Germany,  and  you  make  me  think  of  Germany,  for  you  are 
there,  and  now  I  must  write  to  you  there.  Nothing  agreeable 
has  reached  me  from  the  fatherland  for  these  three  years  ;  and 
the  Germans  whom  I  have  seen  in  Paris  have  kept  me  from 
being  homesick. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 


BOULOGNE-SUR-MER,  December  23,  1835. 
To  Heinrich  Laube  : 

.  .  .  As  to  the  rest  of  Young  Germany,  I  have  not  the  slight- 
est alliance  with  it.  As  I  hear,  they  have  set  down  my  name 
among  the  contributors  to  their  new  Revue,  for  which  I  never 
gave  them  leave.  Still,  these  young  people  shall  have  my  good 
support  ;  and  it  would  be  very  vexatious  to  me  if  any  friction 
arose  between  you  and  them. 

Your  question  as  to  returning  to  Germany  pained  me  greatly  ; 
and  I  reluctantly  confess  that  this  voluntary  exile  is  one  of  the 
greatest  sacrifices  I  have  to  make  to  my  ideas.  If  I  came  back 
I  should  have  to  take  an  attitude  that  would  expose  me  to  all 
sorts  of  misconstructions.  I  choose  to  avoid  even  the  appear- 
ance of  anything  unworthy.  So  far  as  I  know,  no  government 
can  trouble  me.  I  have  remained  a  stranger  to  all  the  intrigues 
of  the  Jacobites  ;  the  famous  preface,  which  I  contrived  to 
suppress  in  Campe's  hands  after  it  was  printed,  came  to  light 
afterward  through  the  Prussian  spy  Klaproth  ;  the  embassy 
knows  this,  so  that  no  violation  of  the  laws  of  the  press  can  be 
really  fastened  on  me.  Friendly  speeches  reach  me  from  all 
sides  through  the  diplomats,  with  whom  I  stand  well  in  Paris. 

.  .  .  But  these  are  all  considerations  which  deter  me  from 
returning  home  rather  than  entice  me  to  do  so.  Add  to  this 
the  rancor  of  the  German  Jacobites  in  Paris,  whom,  if  I  should 
return  home  to  eat  sauerkraut  again,  would  see  in  it  a  proof  that 
I  had  betrayed  my  country.  As  yet  they  can  calumniate  me 
only  on  conjecture  ;  as  yet  I  have  given  calumny  no  facts 
to  cook. 

PARIS,  January  12,  1836. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 

I  have  just  received  my  books,  the  copies  of  the  "Romantic 
School";  and  I  leave  it  to  your  imagination  to  paint  the  feel- 
ings roused  in  me  by  the  suppressions  in  them.  Your  excuse, 

231 


232  Young  Germany. 


that  the  book  came  into  the  censor's  hands  at  a  time  when  the 
attacks  of  the  Stuttgart  Literary  Journal  had  alarmed  the 
authorities,  is  certainly  a  valid  one.  As  to  the  article  in  the 
Nuremberg  Gazette,  according  to  which  my  writings  are  for- 
bidden in  Prussia,  with  those  of  the  rest  of  Young  Germany,  I 
have  nothing  to  say  to  you  to-day.  I  shall  wait  for  further 
confirmation  and  particulars  from  you.  I  think  you  too  are 
not  so  easily  frightened.  I  do  not  consider  the  persecution  of 
Young  Germany  of  so  great  importance  ;  you  will  see  ;  great 
cry  and  little  wool.  If  I  should  be  placed  on  the  proscription 
list,  I  believe  nothing  but  a  step  on  my  part  will  be  needed  to 
get  me  erased  from  it.  I  am  not  to  be  put  out  of  countenance, 
and  I  believe  that  the  bolder  front  a  man  shows,  the  more 
easily  people  can  be  managed.  In  danger,  fear  is  the  most 
dangerous  thing.  With  the  consciousness  of  having  written 
nothing  against  the  government  for  four  years,  of  having  kept 
aloof,  as  is  well  known,  from  Jacobitism — in  a  word,  having  a 
clear,  loyal,  and  royal  conscience,  I  will  not  be  so  cowardly  as 
to  disavow  young  men  who  are  politically  innocent,  and  have, 
on  the  contrary,  sent  a  notice  to  the  Allgemeine  Zeitung,  declar- 
ing that  I  should  not  hesitate  to  contribute  to  the  Deutsche 
Revue. 

It  is  droll  enough  that,  but  for  these  late  occurrences,  it 
would  never  have  come  into  my  head  to  contribute  to  such  a 
paper,  and  to  this  hour  I  have  never  sent  a  word  of  answer  to 
Gutzkow  or  Wienberg  about  their  communication.  .  .  And 
now  farewell,  and  in  time  of  trouble  let  us  show  a  composure 
as  great  as  our  adversaries'  blustering  rage. 

I  am  in  better  health  and  more  cheerful  than  ever,  and  am 
enjoying  with  all  my  heart  the  delights  of  this  season  of  pleas- 
ures, thank  the  eternal  gods. 

PARIS,  January  28,  1836. 
To  the  High  Diet : 

The  resolution  to  which  you  came,  in  the  thirty-first  sitting 
of  1835,  fills  me  with  sorrow.  I  confess,  gentlemen,  that  this 
sorrow  is  mixed  with  the  profoundest  surprise.  You  have 
accused,  tried,  and  condemned  me  without  a  hearing,  either 
oral  or  in  writing,  with  no  one  engaged  to  defend  me,  with  no 
notice  whatever  sent  me. 

If  you  do  not  see  fit  to  give  me  a  safe  conduct  to  defend 
myself  in  person  before  you,  give  me  at  least  liberty  of  speech 
in  the  German  world  of  letters,  and  repeal  the  interdiction  that 


^Protest  to  the  T)iet.  233 

you  have  laid  upon  all  that  I  write.  These  words  are  not  a 
protest,  but  merely  a  request.  If  there  is  one  thing  that  I 
would  avoid  it  is  the  judgment  of  the  public,  which  might 
look  on  my  enforced  silence  as  a  confession  of  criminal  tenden- 
cies, or  as  a  repudiation  of  what  I  have  written.  As  soon  as 
freedom  of  speech  is  granted  me  I  hope  to  show  most  conclu- 
sively that  my  writings  have  not  sprung  from  any  irreligious 
or  immoral  caprice,  but  from  a  truly  religious  and  moral  syn- 
thesis, a  synthesis  to  which  not  only  a  new  literary  school, 
called  "Young  Germany,"  but  also  our  most  celebrated  writers, 
poets  as  well  as  philosophers,  have  long  been  devoted.  What- 
ever be  your  decision  as  to  my  request,  gentlemen,  be  per- 
suaded that  I  shall  ever  obey  the  laws  of  my  native  country. 
The  accident  that  I  find  myself  beyond  the  reach  of  your 
power  will  never  tempt  me  to  use  bitter  language ;  I  respect 
in  you  the  highest  authorities  of  a  beloved  home. 

PARIS,  February  4,  1836. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 

The  whole  looks  to  me  like  a  bugbear  ;  but  I  have  thought 
it  well,  in  any  event,  to  smooth  down  the  old  wigs  a  little,  and 
my  childlike,  sugary,  submissive  letter  will  have  a  good  effect. 
The  Diet  will  be  moved.  Everybody  treats  them  like  dogs,  so 
mv  politeness  and  delicate  handling  will  be  the  more  grateful. 
"  Messeigneurs,  Vosseigneurs  !  " — That  was  never  before  said 
to  them.  "  Look,"  they  will  say,  "  here  is  a  man  who  has  a 
man's  feelings,  and  does  not  treat  us  like  dogs  ;  and  we  were 
going  to  persecute  this  worthy  man  and  declare  him  irreligious 
and  immoral."  And  six-and-thirty  pocket  handkerchiefs  will 
be  wet  with  the  Diet's  tears. 

Now  we  must  publish  a  book  which  shall  be  very  interesting 
and  charming,  without  touching  on  politics  or  religion.  This 
book  is  all  in  manuscript,  and  my  idea  was  to  publish  it  under 
the  title  "  Salon,  Part  Third."  Can  you  print  this  book  now — 
print  it  with  my  name? 

MARCH  22,  1836. 

Your  letter  of  March  15  has  agitated  me  so  that  my  head 
is  still  in  a  whirl.  But  one  thing  is  clear  in  my  head,  I  will 
not  betray  the  German  press  ;  I  will  not  sell  my  honor  for 
literary  gain  ;  I  will  not  suffer  the  slightest  stain  to  fall  upon 
my  fair  good  name  ;  I  will  not  submit  to  the  Prussian  censor- 
ship! 


234  Young  Germany. 


I  will  do  nothing.  The  book  shall  not  be  printed  if  you 
do  not  print  it  ;  and,  bitter  though  it  be,  I  give  up  from  this 
moment  the  profits  of  it,  which  I  had  included  in  my  budget. 
Poor  me  !  I  meant  to  rejoice  your  eyes  with  a  new  draft,  for  I 
am  more  in  need  of  money  than  you  can  understand.  I  am  ill 
from  worry,  I  see  that  even  the  party  of  the  moderate  liberals 

is  a  beaten  one.     I  will  now I  do  not  really  know  what  I 

shall  do.  First  of  all,  I  will  save  my  honor.  I  will  have  no 
joke  about  this,  Campe  ;  and  I  hope  to  receive  my  manuscript 
soon.  I  shall  not  sleep  till  I  do. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Bn  2U.tbor's  (Troubled. 

COUDRY,  May  3,  1836. 
To  August  Lewald  : 

I  have  been  in  the  country  since  yesterday  noon,  enjoying 
the  blessed  month  of  May,  for  it  snowed  gently  this  morning 
and  my  ringers  tremble  with  cold.  My  Mathilde  is  sitting 
near  me,  in  front  of  a  great  fireplace,  working  on  my  new 
shirts.  The  fire  is  in  no  hurry  to  burn,  is  not  in  a  passionate 
mood  at  least,  and  betrays  its  presence  only  by  a  little  smoke. 
I  lived  the  last  part  of  the  time  in  Paris  very  pleasantly,  and 
Mathilde  brightened  my  life  by  the  constant  inconstancy  of 
her  moods.  I  rarely  think  of  poisoning  or  asphyxiating  myself. 
We  shall  probably  get  rid  of  life  in  some  other  way,  perhaps  by 

reading,  which  bores  a  man  to  death.     Herr  had  praised 

my  books  so  highly  to  her  that  I  had  no  peace  till  I  went  to 
Renduel  and  got  the  French  edition  of  the  "  Pictures  of  Travel " 
for  her.  But  she  had  hardly  read  a  page  of  it  when  she  grew 
pale  as  death,  shook  in  every  limb,  and  bade  me  for  God's 
sake  to  lock  the  book  up.  She  had  hit  upon  a  love  passage  in 
it  and,  jealous  as  she  is,  cannot  bear  that  even  before  her  day 
I  should  have  been  devoted  to  another,  and  I  had  to  promise 
her  that  in  my  writings  in  future  I  would  not  address  any  loving 
words  to  fictitious  ideal  characters.  .  . 

COUDRY,  July  28,  1836. 
To  Julius  Campe : 

I  am  ten  hours  from  Paris,  in  undisturbed  solitude  in  the 
country,  with  my  mind  in  a  productive  state  of  quiet  which  I 
will  not  disturb,  but  for  which  I  would  set  forth  to  you  the 
provoking  things  and  embarrassments  into  which  I  have  fallen 
through  you,  by  your  proceedings  with  my  last  books.  You 
have  caused  me  much  discomfort  and  trouble,  but  of  this  I 
will  write  you  from  Paris,  or,  at  any  rate,  from  Boulogne, 
whither  I  mean  to  go  again  this  year.  I  am  so  tired  with  hard 
work  that  I  long  for  the  sea  more  than  ever.  I  have  great 

235 


236  <-An  <tAuihor  's  troubles. 

plans  for  traveling,  have  stuck  to  Paris  too  long,  and  there  are 
so  many  places  I  must  see.  .  .  I  must  tell  you,  as  I  am 
informed  from  high  quarters,  the  firm  of  Hoffman  &  Campe 
is  the  cause  of  all  the  harsh  measures  with  which  I  am  treated. 


AMIENS,  September  i. 

I  am  just  now  hunted  like  a  dog.  I  am  overwhelmed  by 
unexpected  events,  and  all  my  literary  interests  will  suffer 
from  it. 

Three  times  have  I  got  halfway  through  the  preface  to  the 
"  Salon,"  and  three  times  torn  it  up.  What  use  is  there  in  my 
writing,  if  nothing  is  printed  ?  I  have  an  extraordinary  plan 
for  setting  myself  right  with  the  public  in  the  matter.  I  am  at 
an  age  when  my  fingers  are  still  nimble.  I  have  never  made  a 
trade  of  authorship,  and  so  have  written  few  things,  but  good, 
and  thus  I  think  I  ought  to  be  judged. 

MARSEILLES,  October  7. 

You  ought  to  sacrifice  a  cock  to  ^Esculapius  !  I  have  been 
at  death's  door ;  but  the  everlasting  gods  of  their  special  grace 
suffered  me  to  live  a  while  longer.  When  I  wrote  you  from 
Amiens  I  felt  within  me  the  seeds  of  the  disease  which  seized 
on  me  as  soon  as  I  got  to  Paris.  It  was  a  terrible  jaundice, 
accompanied  by  cholera  or  some  such  fabulously  horrible 
disease.  Ate  nothing  for  a  week,  did  not  sleep,  nothing  but 
vomiting  and  cramps.  Now  they  have  sent  me  to  Marseilles, 
and  here  I  arrived  day  before  yesterday,  fairly  well,  but  my 
nerves  in  a  very  irritable  state  ;  I  can  hardly  hold  a  pen.  I 
shall  hardly  remain  here  more  than  a  few  days  ;  the  noise  of 
this  trading  port  is  bad  for  me  ;  Marseilles  is  Hamburg  trans- 
lated into  French,  and  I  cannot  stand  that  in  any  translation. 

Aix,  November  5. 

I  write  these  lines,  dear  Campe,  in  Aix,  the  former  capital  of 
Provence,  where  I  am,  on  my  way  back  to  Paris.  I  cannot 
stay  here  through  the  winter  as  I  intended  ;  the  physicians 
here  are  very  bad,  and  my  doctor  in  Paris  is  the  only  one  I 
have  confidence  in.  I  shall  have  a  sad  winter,  as  I  shall  have 
taken  no  sea  baths  this  year.  I  had  still  some  jaundice  in 
Marseilles,  and  have  got  free  from  it  only  within  a  day  or  two. 
Near  my  window  stands  the  statue  of  King  Rene\  who  never 


[Money  Troubles.  237 


had  much  money,  and  was  always  in  want  of  it,  like  me.  In  a 
fortnight,  or  three  weeks  at  furthest,  I  shall  be  in  Paris,  cursing 
this  fruitless  journey.  The  bare  idea  that  I  cannot  take  sea 
baths  this  year  makes  me  sad. 

AVIGNON,  November  8,  1836. 
To  Moses  Moser  : 

Will  the  letter  you  receive  from  me  to-day  please  you, 
although  its  object  is  anything  but  pleasant  ?  Will  you  under- 
stand that  this  letter  is  the  greatest  proof  I  could  give  you  of 
my  friendly  confidence  ?  Will  you  even  look  on  it  as  a  proof 
of  magnanimity  ?  I  think  so,  and  therefore  I  write  to  you  with 
a  heavy  heart,  but  with  no  reluctance — nay,  even  with  a  sad  joy 
that  I  am  actually  once  more  writing  to  you,  and  that  my  ruling 
deity,  the  goddess  of  indolence,  cannot  hinder  me  to-day.  I 
have  thought  of  you  often  enough,  and  while  I  was  lying  deadly 
ill  in  Paris,  in  a  sleepless  night  of  fever,  I  thought  over  all  the 
friends  to  whom  I  could  safely  intrust  the  execution  of  my  last 
wishes  ;  I  found  I  had  not  two  such  in  the  world,  and  thought  I 
could  only  count  on  you,  and  perhaps  somewhat  on  my  brother 
Max.  And  so  I  turn  to  you  to-day,  and  the  friend  to  whom  I 
have  not  written  for  a  year  will  get  a  letter  asking  him  for  some 
money.  For,  through  really  tragical  circumstances,  I  am  in 
such  a  need  of  money  as  you  cannot  conceive,  and  I  am  far 
from  the  few  resources  that  are  still  open  to  me,  after  the 
shameful  robberies  I  have  suffered  from  private  persons  and 
governments.  I  love  you  too  well  to  pain  you  with  the  story 
of  what  has  lately  happened  to  me,  and  I  ought  not  to  do  so, 
for  you  may  not  be  able  to  fulfill  my  request,  and  would  then 
feel  doubly  grieved.  You  can  do  me  a  great  service  by  lending 
me  four  hundred  thalers  at  this  moment,  which  is  the  most  pain- 
ful Passion  Week  of  my  life.  That  is  all  I  care  to  tell  you  to-day. 
.  .  My  affairs  are  in  such  a  sad  state  that  no  one  but  a  fool 
or  a  friend  would  lend  me  any  money.  I  had  a  bitter  falling 
out  with  my  uncle  the  millionaire  lately ;  I  could  no  longer 
endure  his  vile  doings.  .  .  I  do  not  know,  dear  Moser,  if 
you  still  think  as  well  of  me  as  you  once  did,  but  I  know  that 
I  have  not  grown  less  worthy  of  your  respect.  If  I  had, 
I  should  not  be  to-day  in  terrible  want  of  money,  or,  at 
least,  I  should  apply  to  very  different  people  from  you.  Believe 
nothing  that  is  said  about  me,  but  always  judge  by  my  actions. 
•  .  I  am  slandered  alike  by  Christian  and  Jew  ;  the  latter 
are  angry  that  I  do  not  draw  the  sword  for  their  emancipation 


238  *An  Author's  Troubles. 

in  Baden,  Nassau,  and  such  cockney  villages.  Oh,  short-sight- 
edness !  Only  at  the  gates  of  Rome  can  Carthage  be  defended. 
Have  you,  too,  misunderstood  me  ? 

PARIS,  January  23,  1837. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 

...  In  our  misfortunes  we  blame  everyone  but  our- 
selves ;  and  so,  when  I  am  hardest  pressed  for  money, 
I  always  complain  loudly  of  Julius  Campe.  Through  a 
series  of  the  most  inconceivable  events  I  am  at  this 
moment  in  debt  to  the  amount  of  twenty  thousand  francs  ; 
and,  so  help  me  God  !  I  will  pay  it  shortly.  If,  instead  of 
a  Julius  Campe,  a  Cotta  were  my  publisher,  I  could  soon 
work  this  off  with  my  pen.  But  you,  Campe,  by  your  mean- 
ness, prevent  me  from  writing,  rather  than  encourage  me; 
and  you  think  you  have  done  wonders  by  persuading  me  to 
content  myself  with  royalties  such  as  would  hardly  be  proposed 
to  men  who  acknowledge  me  as  their  master,  and  do  not  enjoy 
the  tenth  part  of  my  popularity.  That  is  the  second  point  ; 
and  I  can  talk  of  it  more  calmly  to-day  than  before,  by  reason 
of  grievances  of  a  higher  nature  by  which  I  am  oppressed.  Is 
it  not  vexatious  enough  that  I  must  answer  Herr  Menzel's 
unrestrained  slanders  in  the  most  restrained  way  ?  I  hope  he 
will  find  out  this  time  which  will  serve  him  best,  cowardice  or 
courage  ;  and  I  am  in  hopes  of  driving  him  on  to  the  ground. 
He  must  be  driven  to  it  on  all  sides.  I  should  have  the  great- 
est satisfaction  in  fighting  this  time.  The  traitor  ought  to  be 
punished  by  a  sound  fright  at  least.  Farewell,  and  think  of 
me  kindly.  I  pray  God  heartily  to  grant  you  long  life,  health, 
liberality,  and  riches  ;  also,  to  revive  your  courage — not  per- 
sonal, which  I  have  never  doubted,  but  booksellerish.  What  a 
brave  youngster  you  used  to  be,  looking  with  undaunted  gaze 
at  the  black  caverns,  where  the  arms  of  the  press  whirled 
frightfully  round.  .  .  I  am  having  you  painted  now  in  a  nightcap 
of  proof  sheets,  where  every  bold  word  is  crossed  out  in  red  ! 


PARIS,  January  25,  1837. 
To  August  Lew  aid : 

.  .  .  Through  Herr you  will  have  received  the  pretty  rug 

which  Mathilde  worked  for  you.  By  this  patient  and  tedious 
piece  of  work  she  proved  to  me  that  she  was  very  diligent 
while  I  was  away,  and  true  also.  She  had  no  lack  of  wooers 


"  The  Story  of  my  Life.  "  239 

meanwhile,  like  the  late  Penelope,  who  exhibited  a  very  doubt- 
ful proof  of  her  fidelity  to  her  returned  husband.  Do  you 
really  suppose  Mme.  Ulysses  unraveled  at  night  what  she 
spun  in  the  day  ?  She  made  the  old  man  believe  so,  when  he 
wondered  at  not  finding  any  work  done  by  her  ;  but  the  trollop 
passed  her  days  and  nights  with  her  lovers,  and  spun  nothing 
but  intrigues.  You  can  hardly  believe  with  what  loving  zeal 
my  Mathilde  worked  over  the  rug,  when  she  knew  I  meant  to 
make  you  a  present  of  it.  We  are  both  very  happy  ;  that  is,  I 
am  not  still  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  day  or  night.  I  was  always 
of  the  opinion  that  possession  was  essential  in  love,  and  op- 
posed to  the  poetry  of  renunciation  ;  yet  Platonics  have  their 
good  side  ;  they  do  not  hinder  a  man  from  dreaming  by  day 
and  sleeping  by  night ;  and  at  any  rate  they  do  not  cost 
much. 

PARIS,  March  17,  1837. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 

Day  and  night  I  am  busy  with  my  great  work,  the  story  of 
my  life,  and  only  now  feel  the  full  value  of  the  papers  I  lost 
by  the  burning  of  my  mother's  house.  I  had  intended  to 
publish  the  book  hereafter,  but  am  led  by  the  idea  of  a  com- 
plete edition  of  my  works  to  make  this  the  next  thing  of 
mine  to  be  given  to  the  public  ;  I  will  publish  nothing  before 
this.  I  have  already  told  you  in  my  last  that  I  am  glad  to 
be  able  to  offer  you  such  a  book.  The  vexation  which,  while 
suffering  under  a  want  of  money — a  want  due  to  no  fault  of 
mine — 1  may  have  given  you,  by  urging  at  an  inappropriate 
moment  the  publication  of  the  complete  edition;  this  vexation, 
if  it  be  not  already  quite  past,  I  will  quite  drive  from  your 
mind  with  this  book,  which  surpasses  all  my  former  ones  in 
interest.  You  know  I  do  not  boast  ;  and  I  can  prophesy  an 
extraordinary  success,  for  I  understand  the  public,  and  know 
what  persons,  circumstances,  and  events  it  likes  to  learn  and 
hear  about.  I  also  told  you  that  you  may  now  make  me  an 
offer  for  this  book. 

MAY  10,  1837. 

I  am  writing  in  a  bad  humor.  Vexations  without  end  render 
lovely  Paris  hateful  to  me,  and  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  leave 
it.  In  fact  I  should  have  already  started,  if  I  had  not  expected 
every  hour  your  answer  regarding  my  preface.  But  you  have 
not,  so  far,  sent  me  an  earthly  word,  and  you  may  well  suppose 


240  <iAn  Author's  Troubles. 

my  ill  humor  is  not  lessened  by  that.  I  expect  to  be  here  now 
until  Tuesday,  and  hope  to  get  a  letter  from  you  before  then. 
I  am  going  to  some  place  in  Brittany  this  time,  instead  of  to 
Normandy  ;  and  if  I  can  find  a  habitable  spot  by  the  sea  I 
will  take  some  baths  and  stay  until  winter.  I  need  solitude 
for  my  work.  A  lot  of  disagreeable  adventures  have  prevented 
me  for  the  last  four  weeks  from  writing  one  rational  line  ;  and 
I  am  anxious  to  bring  my  life,  that  is,  my  written  one,  to  an  end. 
I  am  on  bad  terms  with  my  uncle  Salomon  Heine.  He 
offered  me  a  terrible  affront  last  year,  such  as  is  harder  to  bear 
in  one's  riper  years  than  in  careless  youth.  It  is  mean  enough 
that  the  man  who,  as  I  hear,  is  founding  institutes  for  setting 
ruined  Jew  peddlers  on  their  legs  again,  should  leave  his 
nephew,  with  wife  and  child,  to  go  hungry  from  most  unde- 
served misfortune.  I  say  wife  and  child  ;  but  by  the  first  word 
I  mean  something  more  respectable  than  a  wife  made  by  a 
money-broker  and  a  parson.  .  . 


HAVRE  DE  GRACE,  I  believe  the  5th  August,  1837. 
To  Maximilian  Heine  : 

Some  hours  before  leaving  Paris  I  received  mother's  letter, 
in  which  she  tells  me  you  will  probably  appoint  a  meeting  with 
me  in  London.  I  went  to  Boulogne-sur-Mer,  and  left  orders 
in  Paris  to  send  my  letters  after  me.  But  a  series  of  annoy- 
ances which  at  once  fell  on  me  at  Boulogne  induced  me  to 
come  here  to  Havre,  to  take  the  baths,  which,  alas  !  I  am  in 
such  need  of.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  can  hold  out  here  for 
some  weeks,  but  can  say  one  thing,  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
go  to  London  this  year ;  and  I  hasten  to  inform  you  of  this,  in 
case  you  may  have  given  me  a  rendezvous  in  your  letter,  which 
has  not  yet  reached  me.  This  troubles  me  more  than  I  can 
say.  I  should  have  been  glad  to  see  you  once  more  ;  I  say 
once  more,  for  a  sad  foreboding  weighs  upon  me  that  I  shall 
leave  the  world  without  seeing  you  again  with  my  mortal  eyes. 
I  see  you  always  with  the  eyes  of  the  spirit — for  you  are  the 
only  one  of  all  who  understands  me  when  I  am  silent,  and  to 
whom  I  need  not  explain  at  length  that  all  the  troubles  of  my 
life  are  not  my  own  fault,  but  arise  from  my  social  position 
and  the  nature  of  my  mind.  You  know  that  in  our  days  great- 
ness of  character  and  talent  are  never  forgiven,  unless  one  is 
willing  to  purchase  forgiveness  of  these  crimes  from  the  high- 
est and  the  lowest  by  a  series  of  mean  actions  ! 


Quarrel  with  bis  Uncle.  241 

Pray  say  nothing  of  this  letter  to  mother,  for  the  tone  of  it 
might  grieve  her.  You  see  how  wise  I  was  not  to  write  to  you ; 
for  I  could  not  tell  you  anything  certain,  and  uncertainty 
would  only  have  worried  you  so  far  away  from  me.  I  hope 
you  will  not  believe  what  is  said  about  me  in  Hamburg — and 
least  of  all,  I  hope,  will  you  believe  the  vile  reports  that  may 
reach  you  through  Uncle  Heine.  .  .  There  is  always  malaria 
in  that  house.  Every  reptile  that  can  gnaw  my  reputation 
finds  the  greatest  consideration  there.  But  I  have  taken  care 
that  the  temple  of  my  fame  shall  not  stand  on  the  Jungfernstieg 
or  in  Ottensen,  with  one  of  Salomon  Heine's  sponges  and 
porttgts  as  high  priest  of  my  fame. 

You  must  not  take  literally  what  uncle  says  of  me.  At  a 
time  when  I  was  bitter  from  illness  ([  had  a  jaundice)  and 
undeserved  misfortunes,  I  wrote  to  uncle  in  a  tone  that  should 
have  moved  him  to  pity  rather  than  anger,  but  which  did  arouse 
his  anger.  That  is  his  only  ground  of  complaint  against  me  ! 
For  the  couple  of  thousand  francs  I  cost  him  hardly  give  him 
aright  to  complain — him,  the  millionaire,  the  richest  millionaire 
in  Hamburg,  whose  generosity  .  .  .  enough  of  that ! 

You  know  I  have  always  loved  this  man  like  a  father,  and 
now  I  must  .  .  .  enough  of  that !  I  am  most  grieved  about 
the  opinion  of  the  world,  which  cannot  explain  my  uncle's 
severity  otherwise  than  by  some  misconduct,  which  is  resented 
in  my  family  and  hushed  up  in  public.  .  .  Ah  !  if  I  would  be 
guilty  of  misconduct,  I  should  stand  well  with  all  the  world 
and  .  .  .  enough  of  that  ! 

Farewell,  and  write  to  me  if  you  have  a  spare  hour. 

I  am  well ;  I  suffer  scarcely  at  all  in  body,  except  my  left 
hand,  the  paralysis  of  which  is  extending  to  the  elbow.  More- 
over, I  am  very  stout.  When  I  happen  to  look  at  myself  in 
the  glass  I  am  frightened.  I  look  now  very  like  my  dear 
father — I  mean  at  that  time  when  he  was  losing  his  good  looks. 
I  write  a  great  deal.  My  memoirs  are  my  most  important 
work,  but  they  will  not  appear  at  present  ;  I  should  like  best  to 
have  them  printed  after  my  death. 

HAVRE,  August  29,  1837. 

I  shall  be  here  for  some  days  yet,  but  do  not  know  whether 
I  shall  then  go  straight  back  to  Paris.  My  course  of  baths  is 
again  spoiled.  Last  year  I  could  not  bathe  because  I  had 
jaundice.  This  year,  perhaps  because  I  have  lately  had  so 
many  troubles,  the  fifteen  baths  which  I  have  taken  disagreed 


242  tAn  Author's  Troubles. 

with  me  very  much  ;  I  am  again  suffering  from  headaches, 
that  trouble  me  for  three  days,  and  render  me  unfit  for  work. 
This  is  the  beginning  of  new  troubles,  but  since  we  met  I  have 
grown  eight  years  older  ;  and  through  the  sedentary  life  I  lead, 
and  the  mental  and  bodily  excitements  of  the  last  years,  the 
avant-guard  of  decrepitude  has  come  upon  me.  Youth  is  over ; 
and  a  man  has  a  right  to  be  tired  after  a  hard  fight.  I  shall 
write  to  uncle  by  the  next  steamer.  The  idea  of  that  letter 
stirs  up  all  ill  feeling  in  my  heart. 

By  God,  it  is  not  uncle,  but  I,  who  have  aright  to  complain ; 
I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  flayed  alive  by  galling  accusations — and 
I  must  ask  forgiveness  !  There  is  no  sacrifice  I  would  not 
have  made  for  this  man,  and  if  he  had  caused  me  ten  times  as 
much  grief  I  would  long  ago  have  forgiven  him  ;  but  it  is 
bitterly  hard  that  I  must  keep  silent  about  the  atrocious  wrong 
he  has  done  me.  I  am  not  a  false  man,  my  father  said  ;  and  I 
can  only  say  what  I  feel.  All  he  can  reproach  me  with  is  dis- 
respect in  words,  not  in  acts,  and  that  only  once  in  all  my  whole 
life  ;  and  he  must  have  known  that  we  all  in  our  family  are  of 
a  quick  temper,  and  repent,  the  next  hour,  any  harsh  thing  we 
have  said.  I  certainly  have  not  needed  the  help  of  my  family 
in  reaching  the  position  I  have  taken  in  the  world  ;  but  that 
the  family  should  never  have  felt  called  upon  to  forward  this 
position  even  in  the  smallest  things  is  incomprehensible  to  me. 
Nay,  the  men  who  are  notoriously  the  enemies  of  my  reputation 
are  welcomed  at  my  uncle's  house.  A  miserable  reptile  who 
attacked  me  in  the  basest  manner,  the  doctor,  was,  as  I  was 
lately  told,  invited  by  my  uncle  to  his  table  ;  and  old  Miss 
Speckter,  whom  he  wished  to  marry,  received  a  marriage  por- 
tion from  my  own  uncle.  These  two  reptiles  are  well  mated,  for, 
as  I  learned  from  Campe,  in  no  house  while  I  was  in  Hamburg 
were  more  shameful  things  said  of  me  as  an  author  than  in  that 
of  the  Speckters.  That  is  only  one  instance.  We  shall  see 
who  is  right,  I  or  you.  Write  to  me  fully  during  your  absence 
in  Russia  ;  above  all,  give  me  particular  accounts  of  mother. 
I  shall  never  see  you  two  again  ! 

You  must  have  learned  my  arrangements  with  Campe.  In  my 
hardest  times  I  ceded  to  him  for  eleven  years  all  my  works  up  to 
this  time  for  twenty  thousand  francs.  I  had  then  been  placed 
in  a  helpless  position  by  the  unexampled  baseness  of  a  friend,  for 
whom  I  had  become  security  and  with  whom  I  had  deposited 
money.  It  was  only  by  the  greatest  exertions  that  I  contrived 
to  meet  all  demands,  and  give  my  enemies  no  hold  upon  me. 


Quarrel  with  bis  Uncle.  243 


That  was  the  great  thing.     Farewell  ;  do  what   you  can  for 
your  brother,  who  loves  you  more  than  he  can  say. 


HAVRE  DE  GRACE,  September  i,  1837. 
To  Salomon  Heine  : 

With  surprise  and  great  sorrow  I  see  from  my  brother 
Max's  letter  that  you  still  find  fault  with  me,  and  still  think 
you  have  grounds  of  bitter  complaint ;  and  my  brother,  in  his 
enthusiasm  for  you,  implores  me  in  the  strongest  terms  to  write 
to  you  lovingly  and  respectfully,  and  put  an  end  forever  to  a 
misunderstanding  that  gives  the  world  so  much  food  for 
scandal.  I  care  little  for  scandal  now  ;  it  makes  little  differ- 
ence to  me  if  the  world  falsely  charges  me  with  want  of  affec- 
tion and  ingratitude  ;  my  conscience  is  at  rest,  and  besides,  I 
have  taken  care  that,  when  we  have  all  been  long  laid  in  the 
grave,  the  truth  shall  be  known  about  my  whole  life.  But,  my 
dear  uncle,  I  care  a  great  deal  about  banishing  the  displeasure 
with  which  your  heart  is  filled,  and  regaining  the  kindness  you 
once  felt  for  me.  This  is  now  the  saddest  need  of  my  heart  ; 
and  this  favor  I  beg  and  beseech  with  all  that  submissiveness 
which  I  have  ever  felt  for  you,  and  in  which  I  have  failed  but 
once  in  my  life — but  once,  and  that  at  a  time  when  most  unde- 
served misfortune  had  terribly  embittered  me,  and  a  dreadful 
disease,  the  jaundice,  had  changed  my  whole  nature,  and  filled 
my  mind  with  horrible  thoughts,  of  which  you  have  no  concep- 
tion. Even  then  I  wronged  you  only  in  words ;  and  you  know 
that  in  our  family,  with  our  quick  temper  and  frank  character, 
strong  words  do  not  mean  much,  and  are,  if  not  forgotten, 
at  least  repented  of,  in  the  next  hour.  Who  can  know  this 
better  than  you,  dear  uncle,  whose  hard  words  would  often  be 
enough  to  kill  a  man  if  he  did  not  know  they  do  not  come  from 
your  heart,  and  that  your  heart  is  full  of  kindness,  benevolence, 
and  generosity  ?  I  should  not  grieve  long  over  any  words  of 
yours,  however  hard  ;  but  what  troubles  me  sorely,  grieves  me, 
and  pains  me,  is  the  incomprehensible  and  unnatural  severity 
that  dwells  in  your  heart.  I  say  unnatural  severity,  for  it  is 
against  your  nature  ;  some  unhappy  promptings  must  be  the 
cause,  some  secret  influence  must  be  at  work,  which  neither  of 
us  perhaps  guesses  at,  and  which  is  the  more  annoying  because 
any  of  those  around  you,  my  best  friends  and  relatives,  may 
fall  under  my  suspicion — cannot  stand  clear  in  my  eyes.  Such 
a  family  trouble  is  more  grievous  to  me  than  any  other 


244  *An  Author's  Troubles. 

trouble  ;  and  you  see  how  important  it  is  to  free  me  from  it. 
You  have  no  conception  how  unhappy  I  am  at  present,  and 
unhappy  from  no  fault  of  my  own  ;  I  owe  to  my  best  feelings 
the  grief  that  tortures  and  may  destroy  me.  Every  day  I  have 
to  struggle  against  the  most  unheard-of  persecution  in  order  to 
hold  the  ground  under  my  feet ;  you  do  not  know  the  sneaking 
intrigues  that  have  survived  the  wild  outbursts  of  party  strife, 
and  poison  all  the  springs  of  my  life.  What  sustains  me  is  the 
pride  of  intellectual  superiority  which  was  born  in  me,  and  the 
knowledge  that  no  one  in  the  world  could,  with  fewer  strokes 
of  his  pen,  take  more  bitter  revenge  than  I  for  all  the  open  and 
secret  injuries  that  are  done  me. 

But  you  ask,  what  is  the  real  ground  of  the  curse  that  lies  on 
all  men  of  great  genius  ?  Why  does  the  thunderbolt  of  mis- 
fortune fall  oftenest  on  the  loftiest  spirits,  the  towers  among 
mankind,  and  kindly  spare  the  humble,  thatched  roof  of 
mediocrity  ?  Tell  me,  why  does  man  reap  trouble  when  he 
sows  love  ?  Tell  me,  why  the  man  who  is  so  tender,  so  pitiful, 
so  soft-hearted  to  strangers,  is  so  hard  toward  his  nephew  ? 


PARIS,  September  15,  1837. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 

I  left  Havre  a  week  ago,  in  consequence  of  a  trouble  in  the 
eyes,  which  was  growing  worse  almost  hourly.  When  I  got  here 
I  could  not  see  at  all  with  my  right  eye,  and  very  little  with 
my  left.  The  best  oculist  here,  Sichel,  has  helped  me  so  much 
that  to-day  I  can  go  out  and  write.  But  I  do  not  see  the 
letters  well  yet.  Am,  moreover,  as  weak  as  a  fly  ;  have  lost 
blood  every  day,  and  eaten  nothing  till  this  morning. 


PARIS,  October  3,  1837. 
To  J.  H.  Detmold : 

My  eyes  are  better,  so  I  am  tolerably  off  in  that  respect. 
My  passion  for  Mathilde  grows  more  chronic  every  day  ;  she 
behaves  well,  troubling  me  more  in  my  dreams  than  in  reality — 
but  disturbing  dreams  and  sad  anticipations  embitter  my 
days.  I  am  drinking  deep  of  the  sorrows  of  possession.  I  was 
lately  in  her  village,  and  had  an  incredible  idyllic  adventure. 
Her  mother  gave  me  Mathilde's  first  little  shift ;  and  the 
pathetic  little  bit  of  linen  lies  before  me  at  this  moment  on  my 
table. 


Failing  Sight.  245 


PARIS,  December  19,  1837. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 

The  new  year  is  at  the  door,  and  to-day  I  send  you  my  best 
wishes  for  the  season.  May  Heaven  keep  you  happy  and  pros- 
perous, you  and  your  family,  in  which  I  include  your  authors. 
Sickness  is  the  greatest  of  evils  ;  I  have  proved  this  lately, 
especially  in  the  matter  of  my  eyes,  which  are  growing  dim 
again  these  few  days  past.  I  follow  the  doctor's  prescriptions 
carefully,  and  leave  the  god  of  German  letters  to  care  for 
all  the  rest.  I  am  otherwise  well  and  hearty,  save  for  a  certain 
sadness  of  spirit  ;  I  fight  the  fight  of  life  bravely,  but  with  no 
pleasure ;  many  unlooked-for  things  come  upon  me,  and  the 
ceaseless  struggle  grows  wearisome  to  me  at  last,  frightfully 
wearisome. 


CHAPTER  X. 
betters  on  tbe 

[Written  in  May,  1837,  in  a  village  near  Paris.] 

To  August  Lew  aid : 

At  last,  at  last,  the  weather  allows  us  to  leave  Paris  and  the  warm 
fireside  ;  and  the  first  hours  I  spend  in  the  country  shall  be 
given  to  you,  my  dear  friend.  How  fair  the  sun  looks  on  my 
paper,  gilding  the  letters  that  carry  you  my  warmest  greetings  ! 
Yes  ;  winter  is  fleeing  over  the  mountains  ;  behind  him  the 
merry  spring  breezes  are  fluttering,  like  a  troop  of  joyous  gri- 
settes  chasing  a  love-sick  old  beau  with  shouts  of  laughter,  and 
threatening  him  with  birch  rods.  How  he  gasps  and  groans, 
the  gray-haired  fop!  How  pitilessly  the  young  girls  chase  him 
before  them  !  How  the  bright  straps  of  their  bodices  crackle 
and  shine  !  Here  and  there  a  knot  of  ribbon  falls  on  the  grass. 
The  violets  peep  out  curiously,  looking  on  at  the  merry  chase. 
The  old  fellow  is  now  fairly  put  to  flight,  and  the  nightingales 
sing  a  song  of  triumph.  How  sweetly  and  freshly  they 
sing  !  At  last  we  can  do  without  the  grand  airs  of  Meyerbeer 
and  Duprez.  .  .  Nourrit  we  gave  up  long  ago.  Anyone  can 
be  spared  in  this  world,  except,  possibly,  the  sun  and  me.  For 
I  cannot  imagine  a  spring  without  these  two,  nor  spring  breezes 
either,  nor  grisettes,  nor  German  literature  !  .  .  .  The  whole 
world  would  be  a  yawning  void,  the  shadow  of  nothing,  a  flea's 
dream,  a  poem  by  Karl  Streckfuss  ! 

Yes,  it  is  spring,  and  at  last  I  can  leave  off  my  under  waist- 
coat. The  little  children  have  pulled  off  their  jackets,  and 
are  dancing  in  their  shirt  sleeves  round  the  great  tree,  which 
stands  near  the  small  village  church,  and  serves  as  a  bell 
tower.  The  tree  is  now  covered  with  blossoms,  and  looks 
like  a  well-powdered  grandfather,  standing  quiet  and  smiling 
among  his  fair-haired  grandchildren,  who  dance  merrily  round 
him.  Now  and  then  he  shakes  white  flakes  down  on  them  in 
sport.  Then  the  boys  shout  louder  than  ever.  They  are 
forbidden  under  penalty  of  a  caning  to  touch  the  bell  rope. 

246 


Spring. 247 

But  the  larger  boys,  who  should  set  a  good  example  to  the 
others,  cannot  resist  the  fun,  and  give  the  forbidden  rope  a 
pull  ;  and  the  bell  sounds  like  the  grandfather's  warning  voice. 

Later  on  in  the  summer,  when  the  tree  is  in  its  glory  of  green 
and  the  leaves  hide  the  bell,  there  is  something  mysterious  in 
its  muffled  tones,  and  when  they  peal  out  the  chattering  birds 
on  its  swaying  branches  hush  their  noise  and  fly  off  frightened. 

In  autumn  the  tone  of  the  bell  is  more  solemn  and  terrifying, 
and  you  might  take  it  for  the  voice  of  a  spirit.  Especially 
when  there  is  a  funeral  the  notes  of  the  bell  echo  with  un- 
speakable sadness  ;  at  each  stroke  a  few  of  the  dying  yellow 
leaves  drop  from  the  tree  ;  and  this  toneful  fall  of  leaves,  this 
sounding  emblem  of  death,  so  overcame  me  with  sorrow  once 
that  I  cried  like  a  child.  This  happened  years  ago,  when 
Margot  buried  her  husband.  He  perished  in  the  Seine,  which 
had  risen  higher  than  usual.  For  three  days  and  nights  the 
poor  woman  floated  in  her  fishing  boat  along  the  banks  of  the 
stream,  before  she  could  fish  out  her  husband  and  give  him 
Christian  burial.  She  washed  and  dressed  him  herself,  and 
laid  him  in  his  coffin,  and  lifted  the  lid  in  the  churchyard  to 
take  one  more  look  at  him.  She  spoke  not  a  word  and  shed 
not'  one  tear  ;  but  her  eyes  were  bloodshot,  and  I  have  never 
forgotten  that  white,  stony  face  and  those  bloodstained  eyes. 

But  now  it  is  lovely  spring  weather  ;  the  sun  laughs,  the 
children  shout  even  louder  than  they  need  ;  and  here  in  the 
little  cottage,  where  I  passed  the  sweetest  months  years  ago,  I 
will  write  you  a  series  of  letters  about  the  French  stage — not 
forgetting,  either,  your  request  not  to  leave  quite  out  of  sight 
our  theaters  at  home.  This  last  will  be  somewhat  hard,  for  my 
recollections  of  the  theater  world  of  Germany  is  fading  every 
day  from  my  memory.  Of  the  pieces  that  have  been  lately 
written  I  have  seen  none,  except  two  tragedies  by  Immermann 

•"  Merlin  "  and  "  Peter  the  Great " — neither  of  which — "  Mer- 
lin "  on  account  of  its  poetry,  and  "  Peter"  on  account  of  its 
politics — will  be  suitable  for  the  stage.  .  .  Fancy  how  I 
looked  when,  in  the  same  packet  that  held  these  works  of 
our  dear  great  poet,  I  found  some  volumes  entitled  "  Dramatic 
Works  of  Ernst  Raupach  "! 

.  .  .  Perhaps  my  judgment  of  Dr.  Raupach's  works  is 
founded  on  a  secret  dislike  of  the  poet's  person.  The  sight  of 
the  man  once  made  me  tremble,  and  you  know  no  prince  can 
forgive  that.  You  look  surprised,  and  do  not  think  Dr.  Rau- 
pach so  terrible,  and  are  not  used  to  seeing  me  tremble  before 


248  Letters  on  the  Theater. 

any  living  man  ?  But  still  it  is  the  fact ;  I  was  once  in  such 
terror  at  the  sight  of  Dr.  Raupach  that  my  knees  trembled  and 
my  teeth  chattered.  I  cannot  look  at  the  engraving  of  the 
poet's  face  opposite  the  title  of  "  Ernst  Raupach's  Dramatic 
Works"without  my  heart's  jumping  in  my  breast.  .  .  You  look 
at  me  in  great  wonder,  dear  friend  ;  and  I  hear  a  soft  voice  at 
your  side  saying,  "  Pray  tell  us  about  it." 

But  it  is  a  long  story,  and  I  have  not  time  to-day  to  tell  it. 
Besides,  it  would  remind  me  of  too  many  things  that  I  am 
glad  to  have  forgotten  ;  for  instance,  of  the  sad  days  I  passed 
at  Potsdam,  and  the  great  sorrow  that  had  driven  me  into 
solitude.  I  was  walking  all  alone  in  dead  and  buried  Sans 
Souci,  under  the  orange  trees  of  the  great  terrace.  My  God, 
how  unrefreshing  and  prosaic  those  orange  trees  are  !  .  .  . 

I  was,  as  I  have  said,  at  Potsdam  in  no  specially  gay  mood  ; 
and  thereupon  my  body  and  mind  laid  a  wager  which  could 
torment  me  most.  Oh  !  mental  pain  is  easier  to  bear  than 
physical ;  and  if  I  were  given  the  choice  between  a  bad  con- 
science and  a  bad  tooth,  I  would  choose  the  former.  Oh,  noth- 
ing is  more  horrible  than  a  toothache  !  I  found  this  out  at 
Potsdam  ;  I  forgot  all  the  griefs  of  my  soul,  and  decided  to  go 
to  Berlin  and  have  my  bad  tooth  drawn.  What  a  terrible, 
dreadful  operation  !  It  is  something  like  having  your  head  cut 
off.  You  must  sit  in  a  chair  and  keep  still  and  quietly  wait  for 
the  dreadful  pull !  My  hair  stands  on  end  at  the  bare  thought. 
But  Providence  in  its  wisdom  has  ordered  all  for  our  best,  and 
man's  pains  finally  conduce  to  his  good.  Toothache  is  horri- 
ble, unbearable,  to  be  sure  ;  but  a  kindly-judging  Providence 
gave  to  toothache  this  horrible,  unbearable  character  that  we 
might  at  last  in  despair  go  to  the  dentist  and  have  it  out. 
Really  no  one  would  make  up  his  mind  to  this  operation, 
or,  rather,  execution,  if  toothache  were  in  the  least  degree 
endurable ! 

You  cannot  imagine  in  what  a  cowardly  and  wretched  state 
I  was,  sitting  in  the  post-wagon  on  that  three  hours'  journey. 
When  I  reached  Berlin  I  was  utterly  worn  out  ;  and  as  one 
has  no  thoughts  for  money  at  such  a  moment,  I  gave  the  postil- 
ion twelve  good  groschen  for  his  fee.  The  fellow  looked  at 
me  with  a  queer,  irresolute  face,  for,  by  the  new  Nagler  post- 
laws,  postilions  were  positively  forbidden  to  take  any  drink 
money.  He  held  the  twelve-groschen  bit  in  his  hand  a  long 
time,  as  if  weighing  it  ;  and,  before  pocketing  it,  said  in  a 
doleful  tone  :  "  For  twenty  years  I  have  been  a  postilion  and 


Toothache.  249 

been  used  to  drink  money,  and  now  we  are  forbidden  under 
severe  penalties  by  the  Chief  Director  of  Posts  to  take  any- 
thing from  travelers.  But  it  is  an  intolerable  law  ;  no  one 
can  refuse  drink  money  ;  it  is  against  nature !  "  I  gave  the 
worthy  man  my  hand,  and  sighed.  With  a  sigh,  I  at  last 
reached  the  inn  ;  and  as  I  at  once  asked  for  a  good  dentist, 
the  host  answered  with  great  delight  :  "  That  is  lucky  ;  I  have 
a  celebrated  dentist  from  St.  Petersburg  in  the  house,  and  if 
you  dine  at  the  table  d'hfife  you  will  see  him."  Yes,  thought 
I,  I  will  eat  my  last  meal  before  laying  my  head  on  the  block. 
But  at  table  all  love  of  eating  left  me.  I  was  hungry,  but  had 
no  desire  for  food.  In  spite  of  my  levity  I  could  not  banish 
from  my  mind  the  terrors  that  awaited  me  in  the  next  hour. 
My  favorite  dish,  mutton  and  French  turnips,  was  odious  to 
me.  My  eyes  involuntarily  sought  the  fearful  man,  the  tooth- 
headsman  from  St.  Petersburg  ;  and,  with  the  instinct  of  fear, 
I  soon  picked  him  out  among  the  guests.  He  was  sitting  far 
from  me,  at  the  end  of  the  table,  and  had  a  queer,  pinched-up 
face,  a  face  like  a  pair  of  forceps.  He  was  a  fatal  looking 
fellow,  in  an  ashen-gray  coat  and  bright  steel  buttons.  I 
scarce  dared  to  look  him  in  the  face  ;  and  when  he  took  a  fork 
in  his  hand  I  was  as  frightened  as  if  he  had  his  chisel  at  my 
jaw.  With  a  shudder  of  fear  I  turned  from  him,  and  would 
gladly  have  stopped  my  ears  to  escape  the  sound  of  his  voice. 
By  its  tone  I  knew  he  was  one  of  those  men  who  seem  as  if 
they  must  be  painted  gray  inside,  and  have  bowels  of  wood. 
He  talked  of  Russia,  where  he  had  been  for  some  time,  but 
found  no  great  field  for  the  exercise  of  his  art.  He  spoke  with 
that  quiet  impertinent  reserve  that  is  more  unbearable  than 
the  loudest  boasting.  Every  time  he  spoke  I  felt  weak,  and 
my  heart  trembled.  In  despair  I  fell  to  conversing  with  my 
neighbor  at  table ;  and,  carefully  turning  my  back  on  the 
horrible  creature,  I  spoke  so  loud  that  I  deafened  my  own  ears 
and  drowned  his  voice.  My  neighbor  was  a  charming  man,  of 
distinguished  appearance  and  most  refined  manners;  and  his 
amiable  conversation  soothed  the  painful  state  of  my  mind. 
He  was  politeness  itself.  The  words  fell  softly  from  his  gently 
curved  lips,  his  eye  was  clear  and  friendly,  and  when  he  heard 
I  had  a  troublesome  tooth,  he  blushed  and  offered  me  his 
services.  Who  are  you,  for  God's  sake  ?  cried  I.  "  I  am 
Meier,  dentist,  from  St.  Petersburg,"  he  answered.  I  pushed 
my  chair  almost  rudely  away  from  him,  and  stuttered  out  in 
great  confusion:  Then  who  is  that,  over  there  at  the  table,  in 


250  Letters  on  the  Theater. 

a  gray  coat  and  steel  buttons?  "I  do  not  know,"  answered 
my  neighbor,  looking  at  me  with  surprise.  The  waiter,  who 
heard  my  question,  whispered  in  my  ear  with  an  air  of  impor- 
tance, "  That  is  the  theatrical  poet,  Raupach." 


Is  it  true  that  we  Germans  cannot  produce  a  good  comedy, 
and  are  condemned  forever  to  borrow  such  inventions  from 
the  French  ? 

Nothing  can  be  less  tenable  than  the  grounds  on  which  those 
rely  who  would  answer  this  question  in  the  affirmative.  They 
say,  for  instance,  that  the  Germans  have  no  good  comedies 
because  they  are  a  serious  people,  while  the  French  are  a  gay 
people,  and  so  better  endowed  for  comedy.  The  position  is 
radically  false.  The  French  are  by  no  means  a  gay  people. 
On  the  contrary,  I  begin  to  think  Laurence  Sterne  was  right  in 
thinking  them  far  too  serious.  And  when  Yorick  wrote  his 
"  Sentimental  Journey  through  France,"  all  the  frivolity  and  per- 
fumed fadaise  of  the  old  regime  was  still  in  bloom  ;  and  the 
French  had  not  yet  had  the  needed  lessons  in  reflection  from  the 
guillotine  and  Napoleon.  And  now,  since  the  Revolution  of 
July,  what  wearisome  progress  they  have  made  in  seriousness 
or,  at  least,  want  of  humor  !  Their  faces  have  grown  longer,  the 
corners  of  their  mouths  droop  thoughtfully  ;  they  are  learning 
from  us  to  talk  philosophy  and  smoke  tobacco.  A  great 
change  has  come  over  the  French  since  then  ;  they  are  not 
like  themselves.  Nothing  is  more  pitiful  than  the  babbling  of 
our  Teutomaniacs,  who,  when  they  fall  foul  of  the  French, 
always  have  before  their  eyes  the  French  of  the  Empire  whom 
they  saw  in  Germany.  They  never  think  that  this  fickle  people, 
at  whose  frivolity  they  are  ever  railing,  cannot  have  stood  still 
for  twenty  years  in  their  modes  of  thought  and  feeling  ! 

It  is  also  an  error  to  attribute  the  unfruitfulness  of  the 
German  Thalia  to  a  want  of  free  air,  or,  if  I  may  use  a  frivol- 
ous word,  to  the  want  of  political  liberty.  No  ;  their  political 
condition  does  not  determine  the  development  of  comedy 
among  a  people  ;  and  I  would  prove  this  thoroughly  were  it 
not  that  I  should  be  led  onto  ground  which  I  want  to  avoid. 
Yes,  my  dear  friend,  I  cultivate  a  real  aversion  to  politics,  and 
walk  ten  steps  aside  to  avoid  a  political  thought  that  comes  in 
my  way,  as  if  it  were  a  mad  dog.  When  a  political  thought 
comes  across  my  line  of  reflection  I  say  the  charm  at  once. 


<v^  Charm.  251 

Do  you  know  the  charm,  dear  friend,  that  you  must  say  as 
soon  as  you  meet  a  mad  dog  ?  I  remember  it  from  my  child- 
hood, and  learned  it  then  from  old  chaplain  Asthover.  When 
we  were  walking,  and  a  dog  came  in  sight  with  his  tail  sus- 
piciously hugged  between  his  legs,  we  hastened  to  repeat  this 
charm  : 

"Odog,  Odog, 

You  are  not  well. 
You're  cursed  forever, 

You'll  go  to  hell. 
From  angry  bite 
Save  me,  God's  and  Jesus'  might.     Amen  !  " 

I  cherish  a  boundless  fear  of  theology  also,  as  well  as  politics, 
for  it  has  never  brought  me  anything  but  vexation.  I  no 
longer  suffer  myself  to  be  misled  by  Satan  ;  I  abstain  from  all 
reflections  on  Christianity,  and  am  not  fool  enough  to  try  to 
convert  Hengstenberg  and  his  followers  to  the  enjoyments  of 
life  ;  let  them  munch  thistles  instead  of  pineapples,  and  chas- 
tise the  flesh  ;  tant  tru'eux,  I  would  gladly  provide  the  rods  my- 
self. Theology  brought  me  ill  luck.  You  know  through  what 
misunderstanding.  You  know  how,  without  any  step  on  my- 
part,  I  was  enrolled  among  Young  Germany  by  the  Diet — and 
how  I  have  up  to  this  day  vainly  begged  for  my  discharge. 
In  vain  I  send  the  most  humble  petitions,  in  vain  I  declare 
that  I  no  longer  stand  by  my  religious  errors  ;  .  .  .  nothing 
avails  !  I  do  not  indeed  ask  fora  great  pension  ;  but  I  should 
like  to  be  set  at  rest.  Dear  friend,  you  would  really  please 
me  if  you  would  occasionally  charge  me  in  your  paper  with 
obscurantism  and  servilism  ;  it  might  do  some  good.  I  do  not 
have  to  specially  request  any  such  favors  from  my  enemies, 
who  calumniate  me  with  the  greatest  complaisance. 

You  see,  my  dear  friend,  it  is  the  secret  curse  of  exile  that 
we  are  never  quite  at  ease  in  a  foreign  atmosphere  ;  that, 
with  the  home  ways  of  thought  and  feeling  which  we  carry 
with  us,  we  remain  isolated  among  a  people  who  think  and  feel 
far  differently  from  us  ;  that  we  are  constantly  annoyed  by 
civilized,  or,  rather,  uncivilized,  phenomena  to  which  the 
natives  have  long  been  accustomed — to  which,  in  fact,  from 
habit  they  pay  no  attention,  any  more  than  to  the  natural 
features  of  their  country.  Alas  !  The  mental  climate  of  a 
foreign  country  is  as  inhospitable  to  us  as  the  physical  ;  nay, 


252  Letters  on  the  Theater. 

we  can  become  reconciled  to  the  latter,  and  at  the  worst  it 
disagrees  with  our  body  and  not  our  soul  ! 

A  revolutionary  frog,  who  would  fain  lift  himself  above  his 
native  water,  and  looked  upon  the  life  of  birds  in  the  air  as 
the  ideal  existence,  would  not  stand  it  long  in  the  dry  and  so- 
called  free  air,  but  would  wish  himself  back  in  the  heavy, 
solid  marsh  of  his  birth.  At  first  he  puffs  himself  out  bravely, 
and  joyfully  hails  the  sun  which  shines  so  finely  in  July,  and 
says  to  himself  :  "  I  am  something  more  than  my  country- 
men the  codfish,  those  dumb  water  animals  ;  Jupiter  gave  me 
a  voice  :  I  am  a  singer  ;  I  feel  I  am  akin  to  the  birds,  and 
only  need  wings."  .  .  Poor  frog  !  If  he  had  wings  he  could 
not  rise  with  them  ;  he  would  not  know  how  to  fly  high  in  air, 
and  would  look  down  to  earth  in  spite  of  himself.  From  that 
height  he  would  first  learn  the  sad  aspect  of  the  earthly  vale 
of  tears  ;  and  the  frog  with  wings  would  feel  less  free  than  he 
was  formerly  in  the  most  German  of  marshes  ! 


.  .  .  The  shining  morning  clouds  promise  a  fine  spring  day. 
The  cock  is  crowing.  The  old  invalid  who  lives  near  us  is 
already  sitting  before  the  door  of  his  house,  and  singing  his 
Napoleonic  songs.  His  grandson,  too,  a  fair-haired  child,  is  on 
his  naked  legs,  and  stands  in  front  of  my  window  with  a  bit  of 
sugar  in  his  fingers,  with  which  he  is  trying  to  feed  the  roses. 
A  sparrow  comes  hopping  up  on  his  little  feet,  and  looks 
curiously  and  wonderingly  up  at  the  dear  child.  But  the 
mother  comes  out  with  hasty  steps,  a  handsome  peasant  woman, 
takes  the  child  on  her  arm  and  carries  him  into  the  house,  for 
fear  he  should  take  cold  in  the  morning  air. 


.  .  .  Dear  friend,  '.vorse  than  dreams  is  the  awakening. 
How  happy  the  French  are  !  They  never  dream.  I  have 
inquired  as  to  this  ;  and  the  fact  explains  why  they  go 
about  their  daily  affairs  with  a  wide-awake  certainty,  and  do 
not  indulge  in  obscure  twilight  thoughts  and  feelings,  in  their 
art  as  well  as  in  their  lives.  In  the  tragedies  of  our  great 
German  poets  dreams  play  an  important  part,  of  which  the 
French  dramatists  have  no  presentiment.  Indeed,  they  have 
no  presentiments.  Whatever  of  that  sort  appears  in  modern 


Cat  and  a  Cossack.  253 


French  poetry  is  not  due  to  the  nature  of  the  poet  or  the 
public,  but  is  merely  an  echo  of  German  feeling,  and  often 
mere  pitiful  stealing.  For  the  French  commit  not  merely 
plagiarism  of  methods  of  thought  ;  they  filch  from  us  not  only 
poetic  figures  and  pictures,  ideas  and  images,  but  steal  our 
dispositions,  emotions,  moods  —  they  commit  plagiarism  of 
feelings.  .  . 

For  special  reasons  I  have  not  cared  to  send  you  more 
than  slight  observations  on  the  social  condition  of  the  French. 
How  they  will  free  themselves  from  their  entanglements  no 
man  can  say.  France  may  be  drawing  near  a  frightful  catas- 
trophe. Those  who  begin  a  revolution  are  generally  its 
victims  ;  and  perhaps  this  fate  befalls  peoples  as  well  as  indivi- 
duals. The  French  people,  who  began  the  European  revo- 
lution, may  go  down,  while  people  who  followed  their  steps 
reap  the  fruits  of  their  beginnings. 

But  I  hope  I  am  wrong.  The  French  people  is  a  cat,  that 
falls  from  terrible  heights  without  breaking  its  neck,  and 
gets  on  its  feet  again.  I  do  not  rightly  know  whether  it  is 
true  as  a  matter  of  natural  history  that  cats  always  fall  on 
their  feet,  and  so  escape  unhurt,  as  I  heard  when  a  boy.  I 
wanted  to  try  the  experiment,  went  onto  the  roof  with  our 
cat,  and  flung  him  into  the  street.  But  a  Cossack  happened  to 
be  riding  by  the  house,  and  the  poor  cat  fell  straight  onto  the 
point  of  his  lance  ;  and  he  rode  merrily  off,  with  the  animal 
spitted  there.  If  it  is  true  that  cats  always  fall  safe  on  their 
feet,  they  must  always  look  out  for  Cossack  lances. 


Dear  friend  of  my  inmost  heart  !  I  feel  this  morning  as  if  I 
had  a  wreath  of  poppies  on  my  head,  which  put  all  my  thoughts 
and  ideas  to  sleep.  I  give  my  head  an  angry  shake,  and,  then, 
to  be  sure,  an  idea  wakes  up  here  and  there,  but  they  straight- 
way nod  again,  and  snore  as  if  for  a  wager.  Fancies,  those  fleas 
of  the  brain  which  skip  round  among  the  slumbering  thoughts, 
do  not  seem  very  gay  either,  but  are  sentimental  and  lazy.  Is 
it  the  spring  wind  that  disturbs  my  head,  or  the  change  in  my 
way  of  life  ?  I  go  to  bed  here  at  nine  without  feeling  tired,  and 
so  have  not  that  sound  sleep  that  binds  all  one's  limbs,  but 
toss  about  all  night,  half  asleep  and  trying  to  dream.  In 
Paris,  where  I  never  got  to  bed  until  some  hours  after  mid- 
night, my  sleep  was  like  lead.  I  rose  from  table  at  eight, 


254  Letters  on  the  Theater. 

and  then  we  rolled  off  to  the  theater.  Dr.  Detmold  of  Han- 
over, who  passed  last  winter  in  Paris,  and  always  went  with 
us  to  the  theater,  kept  us  gay,  however  dull  the  plays  might 
be.  We  laughed,  criticised,  and  abused  people  to  our  hearts' 
content.  Do  not  be  uneasy,  my  friend  ;  you  were  always 
pleasantly  remembered.  We  delighted  in  singing  your  praises. 

You  wonder  I  go  so  often  to  the  play  ;  you  know  that  it  is 
not  my  habit  to  frequent  theaters.  From  caprice  I  withdrew 
from  society  this  winter  ;  and  that  my  friends,  whom  I  seldom 
visited,  might  not  see  me  at  the  theater,  I  generally  took  a 
stage  box,  in  a  corner  of  which  one  can  best  escape  the  eyes 
of  the  public.  These  boxes  are,  besides,  my  favorite  place. 
You  can  see  not  only  what  goes  on  upon  the  stage,  but  also 
what  happens  in  side  scenes,  where  art  ends  and  fair 
nature  begins.  When  a  pathetic  tragedy  is  to  be  seen  on  the 
stage,  and  at  the  same  time  in  the  slips  a  bit  of  those  wicked 
actors'  doings  can  be  watched,  it  reminds  me  of  the  old  mural 
paintings,  or  the  frescoes  in  the  Munich  Glyptotheck  and  many 
of  the  Italian  palaces — where  in  some  corner  cut  out  of  a  grand 
historical  picture,  merry  conceits  in  arabesque,  or  baccha- 
nalian and  satyric  idyls  are  brought  in. 

I  went  very  little  to  the  Theatre  Frangais  ;  the  house  has 
something  bare  and  dreary  to  me.  The  ghosts  of  the  old 
tragedy  walk  there,  with  the  dagger  and  poisoned  cup  in  their 
pale  hands  ;  the  air  is  still  heavy  with  the  powder  of  classic 
perukes.  It  is  insufferable  that  on  this  classic  ground  they 
should  tolerate  the  mad  pranks  of  the  modern  romantic  school, 
or  should  reconcile  the  demands  of  the  old  and  new  public, 
and  invent  a  sort  of  tragic  juste  milieu.  These  French  dra- 
matic poets  are  emancipated  slaves,  always  dragging  after 
them  a  link  of  the  old  classic  chain  ;  a  fine  ear  hears  a  clank 
at  each  of  their  steps,  as  in  the  days  of  Agamemnon's  and 
Talma's  reign. 

Here  I  was  interrupted  by  the  devil's  own  noise  in  the 
churchyard  under  my  window. 

The  old  Adam,  or  rather  the  old  Cain,  had  broken  out 
among  the  boys  who  were  dancing  awhile  ago  around  the 
great  tree,  and  they  had  begun  to  fight.  To  re-establish  quiet 
I  had  to  go  down,  and  could  hardly  stop  them  by  words. 
There  was  one  little  fellow  who  was  pounding  another  little 
boy  very  bravely  in  the  back.  When  I  asked  him,  "  What  has 
the  poor  child  done  ? "  he  opened  his  eyes  at  me,  and  an- 
swered, "  Why,  he  is  my  brother." 


Homesickness.  255 


In  my  house,  too,  there  is  anything  but  eternal  peace  to-day. 
In  the  entry  I  heard  a  noise,  as  if  one  of  Klopstock's  odes  had 
fallen  downstairs.  The  host  and  hostess  were  quarreling  ; 
and  she  was  telling  her  poor  husband  that  he  was  a  spendthrift, 
and  wasted  their  substance,  and  that  she  should  die  of  trouble. 
She  really  is  ill,  but  it  is  from  her  avarice.  Every  morsel  her 
husband  puts  into  his  mouth  disagrees  with  her.  Then,  when 
her  husband  takes  his  medicine  and  leaves  any  in  the  glass,  she 
swallows  it,  that  none  of  the  dear  medicine  may  be  lost,  and  it 
makes  her  ill.  The  poor  man,  a  tailor  by  birth  and  a  German 
by  trade,  moved  into  the  country  to  spend  the  rest  of  his  days 
in  country  quiet.  He  will  certainly  find  that  quiet  only  on  his 
wife's  grave.  Perhaps  that  is  the  reason  he  bought  a  house 
near  the  churchyard,  and  looks  so  longingly  at  the  resting 
places  of  the  departed.  All  his  delight  is  in  tobacco  and 
roses  ;  and  of  these  last  he  raises  superb  varieties.  He  planted 
some  pots  of  rose  stocks  in  the  ground  in  front  of  my  window 
this  morning.  They  are  a  magnificent  flower.  But  ask  your 
vife  why  these  roses  have  no  smell.  Either  the  roses  or  I 
have  a  cold  in  the  head. 


And  how  goes  it  with  the  fair  nixie,  who  could  so  coquet- 
tishly  twine  her  silver  veil  about  her  green  locks  ?  Does  the 
whitebearded  sea  god  still  pursue  her  with  his  foolish,  stale 
love  ?  Are  the  roses  at  home  as  fiery  red  as  ever  ?  Do  the  trees 
still  sing  so  sweetly  in  the  moonlight  ? 

Ah  !  I  have  lived  long  in  a  foreign  land  ;  and  in  my  fabu- 
lously strong  homesickness  I  often  think  I  am  like  the  Flying 
Dutchman  and  his  crew,  that  were  forever  tossed  on  the  cold 
waves,  and  longed  in  vain  for  the  quiet  quays,  tulips,  mein- 
fraus,  clay  pipes,  and  china  cups  of  Holland.  Amsterdam  ! 
Amsterdam  !  When  shall  we  get  back  to  Amsterdam  ?  they 
sighed  in  the  storms,  while  the  shrieking  winds  drove 
them  over  the  hell  of  waters.  Well  do  I  understand  the 
grief  with  which  the  captain  of  the  accursed  ship  once  said, 
"  Could  I  get  back  to  Amsterdam,  I  would  sooner  be  a  stone 
at  the  corner  of  one  of  its  streets  than  leave  the  town  again." 
Poor  Vanderdecken  ! 

I  hope,  dearest  friend,  that  these  letters  may  find  you 
happy  and  gay,  in  life's  rosy  light  ;  and  that  it  may  not  be 
with  me  as  with  the  flying  Hollander,  whose  letters  are  gener- 


256  Letters  on  the  Theater. 

ally  directed  to  people  who  died  since  he  sailed,  long  ago  .' 
Ah,  how  many  of  my  dear  ones  have  passed  away,  while  my 
bark  has  been  driven  hither  and  thither  in  distant  waters  by 
fatal  storms  ?  My  head  begins  to  swim,  and  I  fancy  the  very 
stars  in  heaven  are  unfixed  and  whirling  in  mad  circles.  If  I 
close  my  eyes  wild  dreams  seize  me  in  their  long  arms,  and 
drag  me  to  untold  places  and  terrible  adventures.  .  .  You 
have  no  conception,  dear  friend,  how  strange,  how  worder- 
fully  odd,  are  the  scenes  I  visit  in  dreams,  and  what  horrible 
agonies  shake  my  sleep. 

.  .  .  Dear  friend,  do  not  laugh  at  my  visions  of  the 
night  !  Or  have  you  too  a  workday  prejudice  against  dreams? 

To-morrow  I  go  to  Paris.     Farewell ! 


CHAPTER   XI. 
Xiterars  projects. 

PARIS,  September  17,  1837. 
To  J.  H  Detmold: 

1  have  not  abandoned  our  plan  of  making  a  compilation  of 
good  authors,  and  to-day  I  spoke  to  Heidelof  again  about  it, 
and  he  is  eager  to  undertake  it.  He  would  like  to  make  it  a 
book  in  two  large  volumes.  I  told  him  that  I  would  under- 
take it  in  company  with  you,  and  that  you  would  send  me 
here  from  Hanover  the  extracts  from  the  German  authors, 
accompanied  with  short  biographical  notices.  .  .  Send  me 
a  list  of  what  you  would  include  in  the  work.  My  idea  is  to 
give  but  few  poems,  taking  up  about  one-eighth  of  the  work — 
and  principally  poems  of  new  authors,  and  of  a  gay,  Greek 
nature  ;  and  of  sad  Christian  poems  very  few.  Especially,  to 
select  them  in  the  line  of  world-wide  patriotism,  free  thought — 
Hellenic  compositions.  The  prose  selections  should  be  chosen 
with  the  same  view.  The  older  authors  taken  must  be 
viewed  as  forerunners  of  young  Germany  ;  and  I  mean  to 
give  up  at  least  a  quarter  of  the  whole  contents  at  the  end  to 
the  young  Germany  of  to-day.  You  must  state  what  shall  be 
chosen.  I  will  put  in  some  of  the  lesser  spirits  of  this  school, 
partly  to  show  that  it  is  rich  in  numbers,  partly  to  help  our 
own  party.  The  book  will  thus  escape  the  character  of  an 
ordinary  compilation,  and  be  distinguished  by  its  higher  aims. 

OCTOBER  3. 

The  plan  of  an  anthology  shall  not  be  given  up  in  any  case. 
I  take  your  observations  to  heart.  I  have  not  yet  invented  a 
title  for  the  book.  But  I  think  it  will  be  called  something 
like  "  Specimens  of  the  best  German  Literature  since  the  Birth 
of  Goethe."  So  anyone  who  died  before  Goethe's  birth,  or  for 
other  reasons  does  not  belong  to  the  period  beginning  with 
Goethe,  will  not  be  taken.  I  leave  to  you  the  writers- before 
the  romantic  period.  Of  the  romantics  we  will  take  twelve 
to  fifteen  at  most.  Of  the  dramatic  poets  of  the  art-period 


258  Literary  eFrojefts. 


(since  Schiller's  reign)  we  will  also  choose  a  dozen,  such  as 
Schiller,  Werner,  Kleist,  Grillparzer,  Immermann,  Oehlschla- 
ger,  Millner,  Heine,  Grabbe,  etc.  Finally,  we  will  not  give  all 
of  the  new  literature  (you  are  right),  but  the  most  important 
ones,  and  there  may  be  some  twenty  to  choose,  to  carry  out 
my  plan. 

PARIS,  February  12,  1838. 
To   Varnhagen  von  Ense  : 

Unless  all  signs  fail  the  time  seems  to  have  come  when 
the  old  misunderstanding  may  be  cleared  up,  and  when  the 
Prussian  government  will  not  stand  in  the  way  of  an  old  plan 
of  mine — to  found  a  German  newspaper  in  Paris.  If  you  are 
willing,  dearest  Varnhagen,  to  do  anything  beyond  transmitting 
my  letter  to  Baron  Werther,  and  if  it  would  not  be  improper 
for  you  to  speak  to  him  on  the  occasion,  you  may  give  him  all 
possible  guarantees  (that  are  compatible  with  honor)  in  my 
name.  I  subscribe,  as  you  know  long  ago,  to  anything  that 
your  intelligence  may  dictate.  But  the  matter  must  be  done 
quickly  ;  for,  as  I  hear,  others  are  engaged  in  a  similar  project. 

I  feel  greatly  affected  in  writing  to  you  to-day  !  Oh,  that  I 
could  be  happy  enough  to  see  you  again  in  person  !  Inter- 
change of  ideas  by  letter  is  not  needed  between  us,  for  our 
minds  always  follow  the  same  stream  of  thought,  and  sooner  or 
later  we  always  find  ourselves  in  the  same  waters. 

FEBRUARY  13. 

...  I  had  hardly  put  my  letter  into  the  post  when  it  oc- 
curred to  me  that  I  had  said  nothing  in  regard  to  the  projected 
paper  itself — that  is,  its  nature.  The  idea  of  it,  the  idea 
of  its  foundation  and  scope,  rests  on  this :  that  Paris  and 
London  are  centers  of  all  political  movement,  and  therefore 
correspondence  from  both  places  form  an  important  part  of  all 
German  papers.  Now  instead  of  giving,  like  these,  only  brief 
and  often  home  manufactured  correspondence,  I  could  easily 
furnish  thrice  as  much  intelligence,  and  have  the  advantage 
that  their  local  authority  should  be  undoubted.  My  hope  of 
sales  in  Germany  rests  on  this,  and  is  secure  without  admission 
to  Prussia  and  Austria — but  would  be  by  no  means  large.  As 
to  the  guarantees  I  can  give  the  Prussian  government,  in  return 
for  their  favor,  I  would  observe  as  follows  :  As  I  have  always 
done  since  the  July  Revolution,  and  done  from  conviction,  so 
shall  I  in  future  uphold  monarchical  principles.  I  will  take 


The  "  'Parisian  Journal. ' '  259 

the  news  from  Prussia  only  from  papers  that  have  passed  the 
Prussian  censors.  But  if  I  am  permitted  to  print  private  cor- 
respondence from  Prussia,  I  will  never  risk  the  displeasure  of 
the  government  in  the  choice  of  my  correspondents.  The 
interests  of  the  old  Prussian  provinces  I  know  and  care  little 
about ;  and  it  would  cost  me  no  effort  either  to  say  nothing 
about  them  or  to  merely  quote  the  opinions  of  others.  It  is 
different  with  the  Rhine  provinces.  There  the  bird  is  at 
home.  I  do  care  for  that  country.  I  must  have  absolute 
freedom  of  speech  there.  But  the  Prussian  government  may 
be  sure  that,  in  the  present  state  of  things  in  reference  to  the 
Rhine  provinces,  all  my  sympathy  is  on  the  side  of  Prussia ; 
that  I  never  fail  to  recognize  the  services  of  Prussia  to  this 
bastard  country,  which  can  be  won  back  to  Germany,  and 
raised  to  German  views  and  feelings,  only  through  Prussia. 

Dr.  Kolb  once  observed  in  the  Allgemeine  Zeitung  how 
distinctly  I  had  expressed  myself  against  the  German  revolu- 
tionists in  the  year  1832 — namely,  in  these  words:  "You 
lubbers  have  nothing  to  lose  if  the  French  take  the  Rhineland, 
while  I  should  lose  three  million  readers." 


PARIS,  March  i,  1838. 
To  August  Lewald : 

What  luck,  to  have  a  friend  to  whom  we  can  explain  our 
material  interests,  without  fear  that  he  will  misjudge  the  intel- 
lectual, ideal  views  that  lie  behind  !  I  am  sure  you  took  the 
true  view,  on  hearing  that  I  am  to  publish  here  a  Parisian 
Journal — namely,  that  I  shall,  on  the  one  hand,  earn  a  deal  of 
money  to  carry  on  my  war,  and,  on  the  other,  that  I  expect  in 
this  way  to  erect  a  formidable  bastion,  from  which  my  guns 
will  do  good  execution.  I  have  made  friends  with  the  govern- 
ment (when  you  cannot  cut  off  a  hand,  you  must  kiss  it) — 
and  never  again  will  I  wield  my  sword  on  the  political,  but 
keep  it  for  the  literary  field.  I  count  much,  very  much,  enor- 
mously much,  on  the  fact  that  my  name  appears  as  chief 
editor  of  the  Parisian  Journal.  Everyone  assures  me  that 
the  name  is  not  only  full  of  the  most  brilliant  promise,  but  will 
insure  confidence  and  a  large  sale.  You  have  no  idea  how,  on 
the  first  whisper  that  I  was  to  publish  a  German  paper,  our 
countrymen  here  rejoiced,  how  everyone  will  gladly  enlist 
under  my  banner,  and  how  /  am  looked  upon  as  the  most 
legitimate  person  to  carry  out  such  an  enterprise.  Even  more 


260  Literary  'Projects. 


than  on  the  talisman  of  my  name,  and,  at  any  rate,  more  than 
on  the  resources  of  my  talent,  I  reckon  on  the  help  which  the 
advertisements  and  my  knowledge  of  this  most  secret  side  of 
journalism  offer  me. 

The  Parisian  Journal  will  be  written  in  Paris,  edited  in 
Paris,  and  on  the  frontiers  of  Germany  is  the  press  where  it 
will  be  printed  and  sent  out. 

Mathilde  is  mending.  She  went  out  for  the  first  time  yester- 
day, and  went  with  me  to  the  Opera  Comique.  After  she  had 
gone  back  to  her  maison  de  sante  I  went  to  the  Redoute — 
where  I  walked  about  till  five,  tired,  dead  tired.  So  that  I  am 
so  worn  out  to-day  that  I  can  hardly  write.  I  have,  besides, 
been  in  full  carnival  all  the  week. 

MARCH  6. 

As  a  sequel  to  my  letter  of  last  Wednesday  I  have  to  tell 
you  to-day,  first,  that  I  have  received  the  most  delightful 
answer  from  Berlin  ;  secondly,  that  there  will  be  hardly  any 
difficulty  in  securing  for  my  paper  an  entrance  into  Austria. 
I  find  the  greatest  cordiality  in  that  quarter,  to  my  great 
surprise. 

PARIS,  March  30,  1838. 
To  Jitlius  Campe  : 

At  last,  at  last  this  vile,  cursed,  snuffling,  rascally  winter  is 
over.  I  have  been  for  the  last  three  months  more  wretchedly 
out  of  humor  and  desolate  than  ever  before.  This,  and  an 
affair  that  occupied  my  time  more  than  is  reasonable,  are 
responsible  for  your  not  having  heard  from  me  before  to-day. 
This  affair  was  nothing  less  than  the  founding  of  a  German 
newspaper  here  in  Paris,  for  which  I  can  command  resources 
surpassing  all  that  can  be  conceived  of  in  that  line.  I  only 
needed  a  distinct  assurance  from  Prussia  that  she  would  per- 
mit the  paper  to  come  into  the  Austrian  states  ;  and  I  had 
good  grounds  to  hope  that  everything  I  can  honestly  and 
reasonably  ask  would  be  granted.  But,  to  my  surprise,  the  old 
dissatisfaction  is  not  entirely  at  an  end,  and  my  requests  are 
not  so  completely  granted  as  I  had  hoped.  They  will  not 
give  me  any  distinct  permission,  and  my  plan  for  a  paper  may 
very  likely  come  to  nothing. 

To-day  I  have  a  question  to  ask  you.  .  .  I  have  a  good 
mind  (partly  in  order  to  have  an  organ  of  my  own,  partly  to 
take  advantage,  as  well  as  other  people,  of  the  fancy  for  peri- 


'Paris  and  London. '  261 


odical  publications,  for  my  own  benefit)  to  bring  out  a 
monthly  publication,  entitled  "Paris  and  London"  or  "Lon- 
don and  Paris,"  a  monthly  magazine,  by  Heinrich  Heine. 
There  would  be  six  or  eight  sheets,  brought  out  by  you  in 
Hamburg.  I  should  publish  the  magazine  on  my  own  account ; 
and  wish  to  know  from  you  what  the  cost  would  be,  and  what 
commission  you  would  charge  me.  And  now  farewell — and 
be  sure  that  I  shall  ever  have  your  interests  at  heart  with 
much  affection.  It  would  more  than  grieve  me  if  you  were 
not  satisfied  with  me.  But  you  know  from  the  history  of  the 
most  gifted  writers  that  we  cannot  always  do  as  we  would. 

PARIS,  March  31,  1838. 
To  Varnhagen  von  Ense  : 

I  have  to  thank  you  for  your  kind  efforts  in  behalf  of  my 
poor,  birth-strangled  paper.  You  are  right ;  even  out  of  this 
ruined  affair  there  is  some  fruit  to  be  gathered.  The  chief 
and  sweetest  fruit  to  me  is  that  I  have  found  an  occasion  to 
put  your  friendship  to  the  proof  once  more, and  revive  in  your 
heart  an  affectionate  remembrance  of  me. 

As  to  Rahel's  letters  to  me,  you  do  not  seem  to  know  that  I 
met  with  a  terrible  misfortune  in  regard  to  them.  There  was 
a  bundle  of  more  than  twenty  letters  (though  I  never  wrote 
directly  to  her,  she  always  inclosed  in  yours  a  more  or  less 
long  letter)  ;  and  in  a  fire  at  Hamburg,  which  laid  the  whole 
house  where  my  mother  lived  in  ashes,  this  packet,  with  all  my 
other  papers  left  there,  was  burned.  It  is  strange  that  the 
moment  has  not  yet  come,  and  perhaps  will  never  come,  when 
I  can  frankly  tell  what  Rahel  confessed  in  moments  of 
emotion. 

As  I  said  I  gave  up  my  plan  of  a  paper  as  soon  as  I  received 
your  letter  ;  for  in  so  uncertain  a  position  of  the  Prussian 
government  I  could  not  risk  a  capital  of  one  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  francs,  which  a  friend  was  ready  to  advance  for  the 
undertaking.  Yet  I  cannot  put  the  project  entirely  out  of  my 
head,  and  am  busy  with  a  very  ingenious  modification  of  it, 
about  which  I  will  write  you  next  time. 

PARIS,  April  2,  1838. 
To  August  Lewald : 

I  was  ill,  doubly  ill,  for  Mathilde  was  also  suffering,  and  is 
still  in  her  maison  de  sante  j  so  I  waited  day  after  day  for  a 


262  Literary  'Projects. 


distinct  answer  from  Berlin  ;  and  someone  was  to  start  ten 
days  ago  for  Berlin,  who  would  certainly  have  put  my  affair  in 
good  train,  but  by  an  extraordinary  mischance  he  could  not 
go.  Hence  my  silence  up  to  to-day,  which  do  not,  for  Heaven's 
sake,  attribute  to  any  indifference  as  to  my  newspaper  project, 
or  to  an  abandonment  of  it.  I  cling  to  my  idea,  which  I  con- 
fided to  you,  as  a  most  ingenious  combination — namely,  the 
publication  of  a  German  Paris  newspaper,  edited  in  Paris  and 
published  on  the  frontier,  and  so  not  obliged  to  pay  any  stamp 
or  great  cost  of  carriage — and  which  would  at  the  same  time 
enjoy  the  consideration  of  an  original  Paris  paper,  and  would 
beat  all  the  other  German  papers  by  its  greater  resources. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
ffrienDs  and  jfoes. 

PARIS,  January  16,  1838. 
To  J.  H.  Detmold: 

Gabe  has  just  sent  me  your  letter  of  January  5,  and  I  see 
that  at  that  date  my  letter  written  four  weeks  before  had  not 
reached  you.  I  am  very  sorry.  It  certainly  contained  no 
political  opinions  whatever,  and  therefore  more  of  my  private 
concerns.  You  have  lost  nothing  but  accounts  of  my  private 
life,  which  has  assumed  a  wonderful  shape  since  then.  Since 
my  return  from  Havre  Mathilde  has  behaved  in  such  an  exem- 
plary way  that  I  began  to  fear  for  her  life.  Such  a  radical 
change  looked  like  an  omen  of  death.  She  can  stay  in  the 
house  a  whole  week,  satisfied  with  a  simple  pot  au  feu.  Of  the 
theater,  not  a  word  ;  it  is  expensive.  Made  over  her  old 
dresses  to  save  new  ones  this  winter.  Then  she  grew  seriously 
ill,  and  I  had  to  take  her  to  a  maison  de  sante",  where  she  is 
well  cared  for,  and  will  stay  till  the  new  year  (all  through  the 
carnival),  for  she  does  just  as  I  please  now.  She  begins  to  be 
so  intensely  amiable  and  affectionate  that  I  believe  she  finally 
means  to  make  nie  so.  But  she  is  very  ill. 

I  have  cocu  this  winter  with  perfect  freedom  ;  .  .  .  jejouis 
de  ma  pleine  liberte,  etj'en  abuse  meme. 

I  go  often  to  the  theater — to  my  delight ! 

I  am  quite  well,  also. 

It  is  so  cold  to-day  that  I  cannot  write  ;  my  hands  are  stiff. 
The  maison  de  saute"  where  I  have  placed  Mathilde  is  at  the 
Barriere  St.  Jacques  ;  think  of  it  !  I  have  logo  all  that  horrid 
way  every  day  ! 

PARIS,  June  16,  1838. 

To  Julius  Campe  : 

These  are  the  first  lines  I  have  written  for  four  weeks  ;  for 
the  trouble  in  my  eyes  has  come  back  worse  than  ever,  and  the 
doctor  forbids  me  to  read  or  write.  The  last  is  a  great  depri- 

263 


264  Friends  and  Foes. 


vation,  and  I  can  only  scrawl  to  you  what  it  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  say. 

I  am  pleased  with  what  you  say  of  the  "  Yearbook  of  Litera- 
ture." I  will  gladly  contribute  to  it  ;  and  shall  perhaps  choose 
something  for  it  that  will  give  a  tremendous  vogue  to  the  book. 
I  shall  write  to  Gutzkow  to-morrow.  I  like  him  very  much, 
but  the  devil  may  take  him  too — only  in  a  mild  way  and  with 
due  respect,  for  he  is  a  distinguished  sinner.  He  annoys 
everybody,  and  provokes  enmity  on  all  sides,  even  in 
quarters  where,  by  quietly  waiting,  and  with  three  grains  of 
patience,  most  important  friendships  and  alliances  might  have 
been  expected.  I  will  write  him  to-morrow  ;  so  you  may 
thank  him  to-day  for  the  interest  he  shows  in  me. 


DECEMBER  19. 

.  .  .  That  I  have  not  written  to  you  sooner  is  the  fault 
of  my  weak  eyes  ;  I  have  to  dictate  almost  always,  and 
dictated  ill  humor  seems  much  harsher  than  under  one's 
own  hand.  But  I  really  must  write  you  to-day,  for  I  have  just 
received  the  "  Schwabenspiegel."  Here  again  I  have  been 
sold  and  betrayed,  or  at  any  rate  my  private  interests  have  been 
sacrificed  to  the  most  pitiful  considerations,  if  not  to  thought- 
less caprice.  You  had  already  treated  me  badly  enough  in 
acquiescing  without  my  knowledge  in  the  mutilation  of  the 
second  part  of  the  "  Salon"  and  the  "  Romantic  School  "  ;  and 
now  I  write  a  politically  and  censorially  harmless  thing, 
answering  some  personal  enemies,  and  even  in  this  little  work 
most  odious  mutilations  are  permitted,  mutilations  in  the  most 
important  passages,  and  of  an  almost  malicious  kind,  which  I 
cannot  attribute  to  the  rudeness  of  the  censors.  In  such  a  writ- 
ing, in  which  I  treated  of  personal  injuries,  every  letter  should 
have  been  sacred  in  your  eyes  !  By  God,  I  have  borne  that 
sort  of  thing  for  the  last  time,  and  will  now  take  measures  that 
the  like  shall  not  occur  again  ;  and  in  the  present  instance  I 
will  find  some  way  of  giving  the  little  book  to  the  public  just 
as  I  wrote  it.  I  can  reproduce  it  all  out  of  my  head.  As  if  it 
were  not  enough  that  by  your  fault  the  printing  of  this  thing 
was  delayed  for  nine  months,  and  I  was  cheated  of  the  precious 
satisfaction  which  was  worth  so  much  to  me  at  that  moment ! 
It  is  easy  to  understand  the  refusal  to  give  an  imprimatur  in 
Giessen.  Such  a  thing  would  have  been  impossible  in  any 
reasonable  printing  place  ;  but  you  might  have  known  the 


Gutzkow's  Execution.  265 

result  in  a  week.  All  the  ministers  here  assure  me  that  there 
is  no  ill  will  felt  at  home  for  me,  or  the  children  of  my  brain 
that  I  may  wish  to  send  into  the  world. 

I  will  write  in  a  day  or  two  ;  at  this  moment  I  am  too  enraged 
and  indignant. 

PARIS,  February  5,  1840. 
To  Gustav  Kuhne : 

I  thank  you  for  the  care  for  my  interests  and  the  zeal 
expressed  in  your  last  letter.  Things  are  going  bravely.  The 
Hamburg  clique  is  certainly  broken  up,  the  fellows  have  been 
stirred  up  against  one  another,  and  I  am  waiting  for  what 
Campe  will  do.  That  Gutzkow  and  his  henchman  insult  him 
is  so  much  gain.  That  the  former  has  thrown  off  the  mask  as  to 
me  is  also  a  gain,  and  I  think  I  shall  make  this  pupil  of  Men- 
zel's  harmless  to  others.  Gutzkow's  doings  must  be  made 
evident  to  the  public ;  and  with  this  view  I  shall  answer  his 
attack  very  definitely,  although  it  has  not  hurt  me  in  the  least. 
Have  unfortunately  much  to  do,  and  cannot  under  a  fortnight 
send  you  Gutzkow's  execution,  which  will  form  the  second 
number  of  the  "  Troubles  of  an  Author." 


PARIS,  February  5,  1840. 
To  Varnhagen  von  Ense,  on  the  death  of  his  sister : 

I  have  just  learned  the  new  loss  that  has  befallen  you,  and 
although  confounded  and  at  a  loss  what  to  say,  I  will  write 
you.  Good  Heaven!  All  words  are  weak,  and  a  silent  clasp 
of  the  hand  would  be  the  best  thing.  I  can  well  feel  what 
you  must  be  suffering,  poor  friend,  when  you  had  hardly  recov- 
ered from  your  former  visitation.  I  knew  the  departed  one 
very  well  ;  she  always  showed  me  the  kindest  sympathy,  and 
was  so  like  you  in  her  good  sense  and  gentleness  ;  and  though 
I  did  not  see  her  very  often,  I  counted  her  among  my  trusted 
friends — as  one  of  the  inside  inner  circle,  where  we  under- 
stand each  other  without  words.  Holy  God,  how  this  circle, 
this  silent  band  has  gradually  melted  away  in  the  last  ten  years  ! 
One  after  another  goes  home — we  shed  fruitless  tears  for  them 
— till  we  ourselves  depart.  The  tears  that  flow  for  us  will  not 
be  so  bitter  ;  for  the  new  generation  knows  neither  what  we 
hoped  nor  what  we  suffered. 

How  could  they  have  known  us  ?     We  never  told  our  secrets 


266  Friends  and  Foes. 


and  shall  never  tell  them,  but  go  to  the  grave  with  closed  lips ! 
We  understood  one  another  at  a  glance  ;  we  looked  upon 
each  other,  and  knew  what  was  in  our  hearts.  This  language 
of  the  eye  will  soon  be  lost ;  and  the  written  monuments  we 
leave  behind  us,  such  as  Rahel's  letters,  will  be  undecipher- 
able hieroglyphics  to  those  born  later.  I  know  and  remember 
this,  as  each  one  departs  and  goes  home.  I  cannot  write 
connectedly  to  you  to-day,  dear  Varnhagen  ;  soon,  in  a  more 
quiet  hour,  I  will  tell  you  how  things  are  going  with  me. 


GRANVILLE,  August  31,  1840. 
To  August  Lewald  : 

I  thank  you  for  the  sheets  you  sent  me  ;  unfortunately,  they 
were  not  put  sous  bande,  but  in  a  letter,  so  that  I  had  to  pay 
seventeen  francs  and  six  sous  for  them — at  which  I  nearly 
died  of  fright,  and  am  still  ill,  so  that  I  shall  have  to  take 
some  sea  baths.  In  fact  to-day  I  am  well  and  in  good  spirits ; 
and  either  from  the  summer  weather  or  from  pride  in  a  good 
conscience  I  feel  in  a  splendid  mood  at  this  moment,  when  I 
clasp  my  old  friend's  hand  and  ask  a  favor,  a  favor  of  love 
from  him.  I  have  always  found  you  so  helpful  and  active  in 
the  pressing  occasions  of  my  life  !  The  matter  is  not  so  serious 
to-day  ;  but  I  need  your  help.  By  occupying  yourself  with  a 
matter  which  is  not  of  vital  importance  you  can  free  me  from 
some  annoyances  inflicted  on  me  by  others.  I  have  just 
learned  that  Gutzkow,  on  the  publication  of  my  book  on 
Borne,  has  employed  his  arsenal  of  cunning  to  injure  me  in 
public  opinion,  with  the  hope  it  may  react  favorably  on  the 
book  he  means  to  publish  on  the  same  subject.  It  would 
lead  too  far,  and  would  disturb  my  equanimity,  to  tell  you  in 
detail  how  he  contrived  to  get  an  influence  over  Campe,  and 
use  him  to  my  prejudice. 

You  have  no  idea  what  a  wealth  of  infamy  there  is  in  the 
world  ;  but  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it  as  soon  as  we  meet — for 
I  still  feel  as  if  I  might  expect  you  any  day.  But  you  know 
the  Hamburg  sewers,  and  still  more  those  of  literary  Germany 
too  well  not  to  guess  at  most  of  the  story.  In  the  anarchy 
that  prevails  in  our  daily  papers  it  will  be  easy  for  the  worthy 
Gutzkow,  through  his  mercenaries  in  the  German  journals, 
to  smuggle  in  a  quantity  of  perfidious  articles  against  me. 
want  you  to  counteract  this  mischief,  and  leave  the  way  and 
manner  to  your  own  judgment.  I  am  living  abroad,  have 


Immermann's  Death.  267 

no  literary  relations  with  anyone,  am  isolated,  and  the  anony- 
mous press  at  home  can  tear  my  name  to  pieces  with  perfect 
impunity.  So  do  something  quickly,  as  all  delay  is  dangerous. 
Mathilde  has  grown  a  good  housewife,  with  all  her  mad 
humors  ;  and  our  relations  are  as  moral  as  the  best  in  Gotham. 
Campe  is  just  publishing  the  fourth  part  of  the  "Salon,"  in 
which  I  have  incorporated  several  very  good  poems,  and  the 
"Letters  on  the  Stage."  I  shall  remain  here  for  a  week,  then 
run  through  Brittany,  and  expect  to  be  in  Paris  in  a  fort- 
night. 

GRANVILLE,  beginning  of  September. 
To  Heinrich  Laube  : 

My  yesterday's  letter  has  not  gone,  and  I  hasten  to  add  the 
most  important  part  of  it.  Unfortunately  my  head  is  stunned 
and  I  can  hardly  write.  Last  evening  I  learned  quite  by 
chance  through  the  Journal  des  Dtlbats  of  Immermann's 
death.  I  have  been  crying  all  night.  What  a  misfortune  ! 
You  know  what  Immermann  was  to  me,  my  old  comrade  in 
arms,  at  the  same  time  with  whom  I  entered  on  my  literary 
career,  arm  in  arm,  as  it  were  !  What  a  great  poet  we  Germans 
have  lost,  without  having  really  known  him  !  We,  I  mean 
Germany,  the  old  stepmother  !  And  he  was  not  only  a  great 
poet,  but  brave  and  honorable,  and  I  loved  him  for  it.  I  am 
crushed  with  grief.  Twelve  days  since  I  stood  at  evening  on 
a  lonely  rock  by  the  sea,  looking  at  a  lovely  sunset,  and  think- 
ing of  Immermann.  Strange  ! 

And  now  farewell,  and  give  my  friendly  greetings  to  your 
wife.  I  beg  for  her  kindest  sympathy.  I  hope  to  see  you 
soon  back  in  Paris  ;  we  have  taken  new  lodgings,  and  my 
wife  has  established  me  very  prettily. 

I  am,  strangely  enough,  in  good  spirits,  and  cannot  yet  feel 
sad  over  this.  Perhaps  it  is  apathy  and  not  good  health. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
JBorne. 


As  to  Borne's  "  Parisian  Letters,"  I  confess  I  cannot  bring 
myself  to  be  at  all  vexed  by  the  first  two  volumes.  I  was 
amazed  by  a  certain  ultra-radical  tone,  which  I  certainly  had 
not  expected  from  Borne.  The  man  who  was  always  scru- 
tinizing and  criticising  his  own  pleasing,  ornate  style,  and 
weighed  and  measured  each  syllable  before  he  wrote  it  down 
—  the  man  whose  style  had  always  retained  something  of  the 
philistinism  of  a  small  city,  if  not  of  the  narrowness  of  his 
former  employment,  the  former  clerk  of  police  of  Frankfort- 
on-the-Main,  now  broke  out  with  a  sans-culottism  of  thought 
and  expression  such  as  no  one  had  yet  witnessed  in  Germany. 
Heavens  !  What  terrible  compound  words  !  What  treason- 
able verbs,  high  treasonable  accusatives  ;  what  imperatives  and 
notes  of  interrogation  enough  to  frighten  the  police,  and  meta- 
phors whose  very  shadows  deserve  twenty  years'  imprisonment  ! 
But  with  all  the  terror  they  inspired,  these  letters  awoke  in  my 
mind  a  droll  recollection  that  almost  made  me  laugh,  and  which 
I  must  relate.  I  confess  that  Borne's  whole  proceedings  in 
these  letters  reminded  me  of  an  old  constable  who,  when  I  was 
a  little  boy,  ruled  in  my  native  city.  I  say  ruled,  for  he  main- 
tained order  in  the  streets  by  a  free  use  of  his  stick,  inspiring 
us  children  with  the  most  abject  respect,  and  sending  us  scam- 
pering off  at  the  mere  sight  of  him,  if  we  were  indulging  in 
any  noisy  games  in  the  street.  This  constable  suddenly  went 
crazy,  and  took  it  into  his  head  that  he  was  a  street  blackguard  ; 
and  to  our  utter  amazement  we  saw  him,  the  absolute  tyrant  of 
the  streets,  instead  of  keeping  order,  take  to  leading  us  into  the 
wildest  mischief.  "You  are  too  tame,"  he  would  cry.  "But 
I'll  show  you  how  to  make  'em  stare  !  "  And  thereupon  he 
began  to  roar  like  a  lion  or  squall  like  a  cat,  pulled  all  the 
house  bells  till  the  handles  came  off,  and  sent  stones  crashing 
through  the  windows,  shouting  all  the  while,  "  I'll  show  you 
how  to  make  'em  stare  !  "  We  little  boys  were  greatly  delighted 

368 


The  'People's  Union.  269 

at  the  old  fellow,  and  trooped,  yelling  after  him,  until  he  was 
carried  off  to  a  madhouse. 

While  I  was  reading  Borne's  letter  I  kept  thinking  of  the 
old  constable,  and  could  almost  hear  his  voice  crying,  "I'll 
show  you  how  to  make  'em  stare  !  " 

In  Borne's  speech  the  height  of  his  political  insanity  was 
less  striking,  as  it  accorded  with  the  passions  that  raged  in 
those  about  him,  who  were  ever  ready  to  deal  blows  and  often 
did  deal  them.  When  I  made  a  second  visit  to  Borne  in  the 
Rue  de  Provence,  where  he  had  definitely  set  up  his  quarters, 
I  found  in  his  salon  such  a  menagerie  of  people  as  can  hardly 
be  found  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes.  In  the  background  several 
Polar  bears  were  crouching,  who  smoked  and  hardly  ever  spoke, 
except  to  growl  out,  now  and  then,  a  real  fatherland  "  Donner- 
wetter  "  in  a  deep  bass  voice.  Near  them  was  squatting  a  Polish 
wolf  in  a  red  cap,  who  occasionally  yelped  out  a  silly,  wild 
remark  in  a  hoarse  tone.  There,  too,  I  found  a  French  monkey, 
one  of  the  most  hideous  creatures  I  ever  saw  ;  he  kept  up  a 
series  of  grimaces,  each  of  which  seemed  more  lovely  than  the 
last.  The  most  insignificant  figure  in  the  Borne  menagerie  was 
a  Herr  *,*  son  of  old  *,  the  wine-merchant  of  Frankfort-on- 
the-Main,  who  certainly  begot  him  in  a  very  sober  condition — 
a  long,  lean  figure  that  looked  like  the  shadow  of  a  cologne 
bottle,  but  smelt  very  differently  from  its  contents.  Thin  as  he 
looked,  he  wore,  as  Borne  declared,  twelve  woolen  undershirts, 
and  would  die  if  he  took  them  off.  Borne  was  always  making 
fun  of  him. 

"  Let  me  introduce  Herr  *  ;  he  certainly  is  not  a  star 
of  the  first  magnitude,  but  he  is  a  relative  of  the  sun,  and 
derives  his  light  from  him  ;  he  is  a  humble  relation  of  Herr 
von  Rothschild.  Only  think,  Herr  *,  I  dreamed  last  night 
that  I  saw  the  Frankfort  Rothschild  hanged,  and  it  was  you 
who  put  the  rope  round  his  neck." 

Herr  *  was  terrified  at  this  speech,  and  cried  out  in  mortal 
fear,  "  Herr  Borne,  I  beg  you  do  not  say  such  a  thing — I  have 
good  groonds — I  have  good  groonds,"  the  young  man  said  over 
and  over  ;  and  turning  to  me  he  begged  me  in  a  whisper  to  come 
into  a  corner,  that  he  might  explain  his  delicate  "positione  "to 
me.  "  You  see,"  he  whispered,  "  I  am  in  a  delicate  positione. 
Herr  von  Rothschild's  wife  is,  so  to  speak,  an  aunt  of  mine.  I 
beg  you  not  to  tell  in  Herr  Baron  von  Rothschild's  house  that 
you  met  me  at  Borne's.  I  have  groonds " 

*  Stern,  *'.  e.,  star. 


270  Ludwig  'Borne. 


From  that  time  forward  Borne  was  the  soul  of  the  Parisian 
propaganda. 

I  use  the  word  "propaganda";  but  I  employ  it  in  a  different 
sense  from  certain  informers,  who  mean  by  this  term  a  secret 
brotherhood,  a  conspiracy  of  revolutionary  spirits  throughout 
Europe,  a  sort  of  bloodthirsty,  atheistical,  and  regicidal 
masonry.  No  ;  this  Paris  propaganda  had  more  hard  hands 
than  clever  heads  in  it  ;  it  was  a  congregation  of  handicrafts- 
men of  German  speech,  which  met  in  a  large  hall  in  the  Pass- 
age Saumon  or  the  Faubourg,  chiefly  to  talk  in  the  dear  native 
language  about  the  events  of  the  fatherland.  Thanks  to 
passionate  speeches  in  the  style  of  the  orators  of  Rhenish 
Bavaria,  a  good  many  imbibed  fanatical  notions  ;  and  Re- 
publicanism being  such  a  straightforward  affair,  and  more 
easily  grasped  than  a  constitutional  form  of  government,  for 
instance,  which  presupposes  acquirements  of  various  kinds,  it 
was  not  long  ere  thousands  of  German  handicraft  apprentices 
were  Republicans  preaching  the  new  faith.  So  when  I  read  how 
the  North  German  papers  were  laughing  over  the  idea  that 
Borne  had  carried  six  hundred  journeyman  tailors  up  to  Mont- 
martre  to  preach  a  Sermon  on  the  Mount  to  them,  I  shrugged 
my  shoulders  in  pity — but  not  so  much  of  Borne,  who  was  sow- 
ing seed  that  would,  sooner  or  later,  bring  forth  terrible  fruit. 
He  spoke  well,  concisely,  persuasively,  popularly — plain,  art- 
less talk,  quite  in  the  style  of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount.  I  never 
indeed  heard  him  speak  but  once,  which  was  in  the  Passage 
Saumon,  where  Gamier  presided  over  the  "  People's  Union." 
Borne  spoke  on  the  press  association,  and  how  it  should  beware 
of  all  aristocratic  forms  ;  Gamier  thundered  against  Nicholas, 
Czar  of  Russia  ;  an  ill-grown,  crooked-legged  cobbler's  appren- 
tice declared  that  all  men  are  equal.  1  was  provoked  at  his 
impudence.  That  was  the  first  and  last  time  1  attended  the 
People's  Union. 

But  this  one  time  was  enough.  Under  the  circumstances, 
dear  reader,  I  will  make  a  confession  which  you  would  not  sus- 
pect. Very  likely  you  think  that  the  greatest  desire  of  my  life 
has  always  been  to  be  a  great  poet,  perhaps  to  be  crowned  in 
the  Capitol,  like  the  late  Messer  Francesco  Petrarca.  No  ;  the 
great  orators  were  the  men  I  always  envied  ;  and  instead  of 
the  life  I  have  led  I  would  fain  have  spoken  in  the  market 
place  and  to  a  motley  crowd  the  great  words  that  stir  or  still 
the  passions,  and  produce  their  effect  on  the  moment.  Yes  ; 
between  ourselves  I  will  confess  that  in  the  green  days  of 


The 'People's  Union.  271 

^outh,  when  our  tastes  are  apt  to  be  theatrical,  I  have  often 
dreamed  of  playing  such  a  part.  I  was  quite  determined  to  be 
i  great  speaker,  and  like  Demosthenes  I  sometimes  declaimed 
Dn  the  lonely  shore  while  the  winds  and  waves  roared  and 
howled  ;  this  exercises  the  lungs,  and  teaches  one  to  speak  in 
the  wildest  tumult  of  a  popular  meeting.  I  often  spoke  in  an 
open  field,  before  a  crowd  of  oxen  and  cows,  and  succeeded  in 
outbellowing  the  assembled  cattle.  It  is  harder  to  make  a 
speech  to  sheep.  To  all  you  say  these  sheepheads,  when  you 
urge  them  to  free  themselves,  and  not,  like  their  fathers,  go 
tamely  to  the  slaughter,  answer  all  your  appeals  with  such  an 
immovably  serene  Baah  !  Baah  !  as  puts  you  quite  out  of 
countenance.  In  short,  I  did  everything  to  be  prepared,  if  we 
had  a  revolution,  to  step  forth  as  a  German  popular  orator. 
Alas  !  at  my  very  first  attempt  I  saw  I  could  never  fill  my 
favorite  part.  If  they  were  now  living,  neither  Demosthenes, 
nor  Cicero,  nor  Mirabeau  would  succeed  as  an  orator  in  a 
German  revolution  :  for  in  a  German  revolution  men  smoke. 
Fancy  my  horror,  when  I  entered  the  above  named  People's 
Union,  to  find  every  savior  of  his  country  with  a  pipe  between 
his  jaws,  and  the  whole  room  so  filled  with  the  smoke  of  bad 
tobacco  that  my  lungs  felt  choked,  and  it  would  have  been 
utterly  impossible  for  me  to  say  a  word. 

I  cannot  bear  tobacco  smoke,  and  saw  that  in  a  German 
revolution  the  part  of  braggadocio,  in  the  style  of  Borne  and 
his  followers,  would  never  do  for  me.  I  also  observed  that  the 
path  of  a  German  tribune  is  not  strewed  with  roses,  certainly 
not  with  sweet  roses.  For  one  thing,  you  must  shake  hands 
with  all  your  hearers,  your  "  dear  companions  and  brothers." 
Borne  may  have  spoken  metaphorically  when  he  declared  that, 
if  a  king  should  take  him  by  the  hand,  he  would  put  it  in  the 
fire  to  cleanse  it  ;  but  I  say,  in  no  figurative  sense,  but  quite 
literally,  that  if  the  people  took  me  by  the  hand  I  should  wash 
it  at  once. 

A  man  must,  in  a  time  of  revolution,  have  seen  the  people 
with  his  own  eyes,  have  smelt  them  with  his  own  nose,  have 
heard  with  his  own  ears  how  these  rulers  of  rats  talk,  before  he 
can  understand  what  Mirabeau  meant  by  the  words,  "  Revolu- 
tions are  not  made  with  rosewater."  As  long  as  one  reads  of 
revolutions  in  books  it  all  looks  very  fine  ;  they  are  like  the 
landscapes  that  look  so  nice  and  clean,  engraved  on  vellum 
paper  ;  but  when  viewed  in  natura  they  may  gain  in  grandeur, 
but  the  details  are  filthy  and  shabby  ;  dungheaps  engraved  on 


272  Ludisoig  'Borne. 


copper  do  not  stink,  and  in  an  engraving,  sloughs  are  easy  to 
wade  through  with  the  eye  ! 


This  is  not  the  place,  nor  is  it  yet  time  to  speak  fully  of  the 
differences  which  necessarily  showed  themselves  soon  after  the 
Revolution  of  July  between  me  and  the  German  revolutionists 
in  Paris.  Our  Ludwig  Borne  must  be  looked  upon  as  their 
most  distinguished  representative,  especially  in  the  last  years  of 
his  life  ;  and,  next  to  the  Czar  of  all  the  Russias,  it  was  per- 
haps the  writer  of  these  pages  whom  his  Rhadamanthian  anger 
hit  the  hardest. 

But  was  not  Ludwig  Borne  influenced  by  a  secret  envy  ? 
He  was  a  man  ;  and  while  he  believed  it  was  solely  in  the 
interests  of  the  republic  he  was  destroying  the  fair  fame  of 
some  who  differed  from  him,  and  perhaps  prided  himself  on 
offering  up  the  sacrifice,  he  may  have  been  unconsciously 
gratifying  the  secret  impulses  of  his  own  evil  nature,  like 
Maximilian  Robespierre  of  glorious  memory. 

He  gave  way  to  such  private  feelings  especially  in  my  case  ; 
and  his  enmity  was  in  truth  nothing  but  the  small  envy  that  a 
drummer  boy  may  feel  of  the  drum-major.  He  envied  me  the 
great  plume  that  waved  so  proudly  in  the  air  ;  my  richly 
embroidered  uniform,  with  more  silver  on  it  then  he,  poor 
drummer  boy,  was  worth  in  the  world  ;  the  skill  with  which  I 
flourished  my  great  cane  ;  the  admiring  glances  of  the  girls, 
which  I  dare  say  I  returned  coquettishly  enough  ! 

Certain  improprieties  that  were  apparent  to  me  also  served 
to  keep  me  alienated  from  Borne.  Every  pure  feeling  of  my  soul 
was  revolted  at  the  bare  idea  of  any  intercourse  with  his  moet 
intimate  associate.  To  speak  the  truth,  I  saw  in  Borne's 
house  a  want  of  morality  that  was  repugnant  to  me. 


This  confession  may  sound  strangely  in  the  mouth  of  a  man 
who  has  never  joined  in  the  cries  of  zealots  and  so-called 
moralists,  and  has  been  often  enough  accused  by  them  of 
heresy.  Did  I  deserve  the  accusation  ?  After  severe  self- 
examination  I  can  vouch  for  myself  that  my  thoughts  and 
acts  have  never  conflicted  with  morality — the  morality  that 
was  born  in  my  soul,  the  quickening  soul  of  my  life.  I  have 


His  Envy.  273 

almost  passively  obeyed  a  moral  necessity,  and  for  so  doing  I 
lay  claim  to  no  laurel  crown  or  other  prize  of  virtue.  I  lately 
read  a  book  which  declared  that  I  had  boasted  that  not  a 
Phryne  walks  the  boulevards  of  Paris  whose  charms  have 
remained  unknown  to  me.  God  knows  to  what  worthy  corre- 
spondent such  wretched  stories  were  repeated  ;  but  I  can 
assure  the  author  of  the  book  that  never,  in  my  maddest  youth, 
have  I  sought  a  woman  unless  I  was  inspired  by  her  beauty, 
the  corporeal  revelation  of  God,  or  by  the  great  passion,  which 
also  has  something  godlike — as  it  emancipates  us  from  all 
small,  selfish  feelings,  and  makes  us  sacrifice  the  vain  posses- 
sions of  life,  aye,  even  life  itself  !  .  .  .  And,  in  the  end,  the 
world  is  just,  and  excuses  the  flame  if  the  brand  is  strong  and 
noble  and  burns  clear  and  long.  .  .  It  is  hard  upon  crack- 
ling fires  of  straw,  and  scorns  a  timid,  halfway  blaze.  The 
world  reverences  and  honors  a  passion  when  it  proves  a 
true  one  ;  and  in  this  case  also  time  confers  a  certain 
legitimacy. 

I  was  also  revolted  by  Borne's  eternal  political  driveling. 
Talking  politics,  talking  politics  all  the  time,  even  at  meals, 
where  he  used  to  seek  me  out.  At  table,  where  I  like  to  for- 
get all  the  troubles  of  the  world,  he  spoiled  the  nicest  dishes 
for  me  with  the  patriotic  gall  he  added  to  them,  like  an  acid 
sauce.  Calves'  feet,  d  la  mditre  d'hotel,  once  a  harmless 
favorite  of  mine,  was  ruined  by  his  Job's  comfortings  picked 
out  of  the  most  unreliable  newspapers.  Then  his  cursed  re- 
marks, which  took  away  one's  appetite.  For  instance  :  he 
once  squatted  down  by  me  in  the  restaurant  of  the  Rue  Lepel- 
letier,  where  no  one  used  to  come  except  political  refugees 
from  Italy,  Spain,  Portugal,  and  Poland.  Borne,  who  knew 
them  all,  observed,  joyously  rubbing  his  hands,  "  We  two  are 
the  only  ones  of  the  company  who  have  not  been  condemned 
to  death  by  their  governments.  But,"  he  added,  "  I  have  not 
given  up  all  hope  of  it  yet.  We  shall  all  be  hanged  at  last,  you 
as  well  as  I."  I  observed  on  this  occasion  that  it  would 
certainly  be  a  good  thing  for  the  German  revolution  if  our 
government  would  move  a  little  faster  and  hang  a  few  revolu- 
tionists, that  they  might  see  it  was  no  joke,  and  they  must 
venture  all  for  all.  "You  would  like,"  said  Borne,  "to  have 
us  hanged  alphabetically  ;  and  then  I  should  be  one  of  the 
first,  under  the  letter  B,  and  they  might  hang  me  either  as 
Borne  or  Baruch  ;  and  then  they  would  be  some  time  getting 
to  you,  down  in  H." 


274  Ludwig  *Bdr  ne. 


Now  such  table  talk  was  not  refreshing  to  me,  and  I  revenged 
myself  by  affecting  an  excessive  and  almost  passionate  indif- 
ference for  Borne's  enthusiasm.  For  example  :  Borne  was 
angry  that,  on  my  arrival  in  Paris,  I  found  nothing  better  to 
do  than  to  write  for  German  papers  a  long  notice  of  the 
exhibition  of  pictures  then  open.  I  will  not  attempt  to  decide 
whether  the  interest  in  art  which  inspired  this  work  was  so 
utterly  incompatible  with  the  revolutionary  interests  of  the  day  ; 
but  Borne  saw  in  it  a  proof  of  my  indifference  for  the  sacred 
cause  of  men,  so  that  I  was  able  to  damp  the  joy  of  his  sauer- 
kraut patriotism  by  talking  of  nothing  at  table  but  pictures — 
Robert's  "  Reapers,"  Vernet's  "  Judith,"  or  Scheffer's  "  Faust." 
"  What  did  you  do,"  he  once  asked  me,  "  on  the  first  day 
after  you  got  to  Paris  ?  Where  did  you  go  first  ? "  Of  course 
he  expected  me  to  name  the  Place  Louis  XV.,  the  Pantheon, 
or  the  graves  of  Rousseau  and  Voltaire  as  the  first  places  I 
had  sought  ;  and  he  made  a  wonderful  face  when  I  honestly 
told  him  the  truth,  that  as  soon  as  I  had  arrived  I  went  to  the 
Bibliotheque  Royale,  and  asked  the  custodian  of  the  manu- 
scripts for  the  codex  of  the  minnesingers.  And  it  was  true ; 
for  years  I  had  longed  to  see  with  my  own  eyes  the  precious 
leaves  that  preserved  for  us,  among  other  things,  the  poems  of 
Walter  von  der  Vogelweide,  the  greatest  of  German  lyric  poets. 
This  was  a  proof  to  Borne  of  my  indifference  ;  and  he  pointed 
out  the  inconsistency  with  my  political  principles'.  That  I 
never  thought  it  worth  while  to  discuss  these  with  him  is  a 
matter  of  course  ;  and  when  he  once  tried  to  point  out  an 
inconsistency  in  my  writings,  I  contented  myself  with  the  iron- 
ical answer  :  "  You  are  mistaken,  my  good  friend  ;  there  is  no 
such  thing  in  my  books  ;  for,  each  time  before  beginning  to 
write,  I  take  the  trouble  to  read  over  the  political  principles  in 
my  former  writings,  so  that  I  may  not  contradict  myself,  and 
no  one  may  be  able  to  charge  me  with  deserting  my  liberal 
principles."  Not  only  at  my  meals  but  even  in  my  hours  of 
sleep  did  Borne  disturb  me  with  his  patriotic  exaltation.  On 
one  occasion  he  climbed  up  to  my  room  at  midnight,  waked 
me  from  a  sweet  slumber,  sat  down  by  my  bed,  and  bewailed 
for  a  whole  hour  the  woes  of  the  German  people  and  the 
shameless  conduct  of  the  German  government — and  how 
dangerous  to  Germany  Russia  was,  and  how  he  was  determined 
to  rescue  Germany  by  writing  against  Nicholas  and  the  princes 
who  thus  ill  treated  the  people,  and  against  the  Diet.  And  I 
believe  he  would  have  gone  on  till  morning,  if  I  had  not,  after 


t/1  'Bore.  275 

a  long  silence,  come  out  with  the  words,  "  Are  you  an  overseer 
of  the  poor?" 

I  spoke  to  him  only  twice  afterward  ;  the  first  time  at  the 
wedding  of  a  common  friend,  who  chose  both  of  us  as  wit- 
nesses, and  the  other,  walking  in  the  Tuileries.  The  third 
and  fourth  parts  of  his  "  Paris  Letters  "  appeared  soon  after,  and 
I  not  only  avoided  all  occasion  of  meeting  him,  but  let  him 
see  that  I  purposely  avoided  him  ;  and  though  I  have  since 
met  him  two  or  three  times,  I  have  never  spoken  a  word  to 
him.  With  his  sanguine  temper  this  drove  him  to  despair  ; 
and  he  used  every  means  to  get  on  friendly  terms  with  me 
again,  or  at  least  to  have  a  talk  with  me.  I  never  had  a  dis- 
pute with  Borne,  and  we  never  exchanged  hard  words  ;  I  saw 
his  secret  ill  will  only  in  his  writings  ;  and  no  feeling  of 
v/xmnded  vanity,  but  the  truth  I  owed  to  my  own  thoughts  and 
purposes,  led  me  to  break  with  a  man  who  would  have  com- 
promised my  ideas  and  efforts.  But  such  determined  avoid- 
ance of  anyone  is  not  in  my  nature ;  and  I  should  perhaps 
have  been  pliant  enough  to  speak  and  associate  again  with 
Borne — especially  as  people  I  was  fond  of  often  begged  me  to 
do  so,  and  common  friends  were  often  embarrassed  in  inviting 
me,  because  I  never  accepted  unless  I  had  made  sure  that 
Borne  was  not  invited.  My  own  interest  would  have  led  me 
not  to  provoke  such  a  violent  tempered  man  by  too  plainly 
drawing  back  ;  but  one  glance  at  his  surroundings, — his  trusty 
friends  the  many-headed  king  of  rats,  with  many  tails  grown 
together  in  one,  whose  souls  he  fashioned, — and  my  disgust 
kept  me  from  any  further  intercourse  with  Borne. 

So  several  years  went  by — two,  three  years ;  I  lost  sight  and 
memory  of  him  ;  even  of  the  articles  he  wrote  against  me  in  the 
French  papers,  which  were  so  useful  to  slanderers  in  honest 
Germany,  I  took  little  notice  ;  when,  late  one  autumn  evening, 
I  heard  the  news  that  Borne  was  dead. 

I  did  not  go  to  his  funeral,  a  fact  which  our  penny-a-liners 
did  not  fail  to  send  to  Germany,  and  which  gave  opportunity 
for  disagreeable  comment.  Nothing  could  be  more  foolish 
than  to  find  a  proof  of  enmity  in  a  circumstance  that  might  be 
purely  accidental.  Fools,  not  to  know  there  is  no  pleasanter 
occupation  than  following  an  enemy  to  the  grave. 

I  was  never  a  friend  of  Borne,  nor  was  I  ever  his  enemy. 
The  vexation  he  often  roused  in  me  was  not  deep,  and  he  was 
well  paid  for  it  by  the  cold  silence  I  opposed  to  all  his  whimsies 
and  charges  of  apostacy.  As  long  as  he  lived  I  never  wrote  a 


276  Ludwig  'Borne. 


line  against  him,  never  thought  of  him,  and  that  enraged  him 
beyond  measure.  If  I  speak  of  him  now  it  is  truly  neither 
from  enthusiasm  nor  pique  ;  I  am  conscious  of  a  calm  imparti- 
ality ;  I  am  writing  neither  an  apology  nor  a  criticism  ;  and  as 
I  speak  entirely  from  personal  observation  in  describing  the 
man,  I  may  be  said  to  be  making  a  portrait  statue  of  him. 
And  he  deserves  such  a  statue — he,  the  great  wrestler,  who 
wrestled  so  bravely  in  our  political  arena,  and  gained  the  wreath 
of  oak  leaves  if  he  missed  the  laurel  crown. 

I  represent  him  in  his  true  features,  unidealized,  the  more 
like,  the  more  honorable  to  his  memory.  He  was  no  genius, 
no  hero,  no  god  of  Olympus  ;  he  was  human,  a  citizen  of  the 
earth  ;  he  was  a  good  writer  and  a  great  patriot. 

While  I  call  Ludwig  Borne  a  good  writer,  and  give  him  only 
the  poor  epithet  "  good,  "  I  would  neither  exaggerate  nor  belittle 
his  aesthetic  worth.  As  I  have  already  said,  I  am  here  attempt- 
ing neither  a  criticism  nor  an  apology  for  his  writings.  These 
pages  shall  contain  merely  a  private  opinion.  I  am  anxious 
to  make  this  private  judgment  as  brief  as  possible,  therefore 
one  word  only  about  Borne  from  a  purely  literary  point  of 
view. 

If  I  seek  a  kindred  spirit  in  literature,  Gotthold  Ephraim 
Lessing  at  once  presents  himself,  with  whom  Borne  has  often 
been  compared.  But  the  relationship  rests  solely  upon  their 
ingrain  soundness,  noble  purpose,  passionate  patriotism,  and 
enthusiasm  for  all  mankind.  The  bent  of  their  minds  was  the 
same.  But  there  the  likeness  ends.  Lessing's  greatness  lay  in 
a  mind  open  to  art  and  philosophical  speculation,  which  was 
absolutely  wanting  in  poor  Borne. 

In  the  literature  of  other  nations  there  are  two  men  who 
much  resembled  him  ;  they  are  William  Hazlitt  and  Paul 
Courrier.  Both  are  near  literary  relatives  of  Borne,  though 
Hazlitt  was  Borne's  superior  in  feeling  for  art,  and  Courrier 
had  far  less  humor  than  he.  They  all  have  a  certain  esprit  in 
common,  but  it  took  a  different  hue  in  each.  In  Hazlitt  it 
was  melancholy,  as  its  rays  broke  through  the  dark  English 
clouds  ;  with  Courrier  it  had  a  wanton  gayety,  like  the  new 
wine  of  Touraine,  working  and  seething  in  the  cellars,  and 
ever  and  anon  bursting  its  bonds ;  with  Borne,  the  German,  it 
was  both  sad  and  gay,  like  strong,  sharp  Rhine  wine  and  the 
frolicsome  moonlight  of  his  German  home.  His  esprit  some- 
times became  humor. 

Yes,  this  Borne  was  a  great  patriot,  perhaps  the  greatest  that 


tA  'Pa/no/.  277 

drew  burning  life  and  bitter  death  from  the  breasts  of  his  stern 
mother  Germania.  .  .  Exile  from  his  fatherland  was  mar- 
tyrdom to  him,  and  the  torture  wrung  from  him  many  a  bitter 
word  in  his  writings.  He  who  has  not  known  exile  knows  not 
how  sharp  it  makes  our  sorrows,  and  how  it  pours  night  and 
poison  into  our  thoughts.  Dante  wrote  his  "  Hell "  in  exile. 
And  only  he  who  has  lived  in  exile  knows  what  the  love  of  our 
country  can  be,  with  all  its  sweet  fears  and  homesick  torments. 
Happy  for  our  patriots  who  must  live  in  France  that  this  land 
is  so  like  Germany,  almost  the  same  climate,  the  same  vegeta- 
tion, the  same  ways  of  life.  .  . 

Any  suspicion  of  his  patriotism  roused  in  Borne  a  degree  of 
anger  which  the  mere  reproach  of  Jewish  descent  could  never 
provoke.  Indeed,  it  amused  him  when  his  enemies,  from  the 
purity  of  his  life,  could  find  nothing  worse  to  say  against  him 
than  that  he  was  an  offshoot  of  the  stock  that  once  filled  the 
world  with  its  renown,  and  in  spite  of  its  degradation  has  not 
lost  all  its  old  consecration.  In  fact  he  often  boasted  of  his 
descent  in  his  humorous  way,  and  once,  parodying  the  words  of 
Mirabeau,  he  said  to  a  Frenchman,  "  Jesus  Christ,  qui  par  par- 
enthese  £tait  mon  cousin,  a  prech£  1'egalite,"  etc.  In  truth,  the 
Jews  are  of  the  clay  of  which  gods  are  made,  trodden  under 
foot  to-day,  kneeled  to  to-morrow  ;  some  go  creeping  round  in 
the  shabby  cloak  of  an  old  clothes  man,  while  others  attain 
the  highest  places  among  men  ;  and  Golgotha  is  not  the  only 
mount  whereon  a  Jewish  god  has  bled  to  save  the  world.  Jews 
are  a  race  of  genius,  and  whenever  they  go  back  to  their  first 
principles  they  are  grand  and  noble,  putting  to  shame  and  out- 
stripping their  coarse  oppressors. 

At  any  rate,  it  may  well  be  that  the  mission  of  the  race  is  not 
yet  fulfilled ;  especially  may  this  be  so  in  the  case  of  Germany. 
She,  too,  awaits  a  liberator,  an  earthly  Messiah — the  Jews  have 
already  blest  us  with  a  heavenly  one — a  king  of  the  earth,  a 
deliverer  with  scepter  and  sword  ;  and  this  German  liberator  is 
perhaps  the  same  whom  Israel  awaits. 

O  blessed,  yearned-for  Messiah  ! 

Where  is  he  now  ?  Where  tarries  he  ?  Is  he  yet  unborn,  or 
has  he  lain  hidden  for  these  thousand  years,  waiting  for  the 
great  hour  of  deliverance  ?  Is  it  old  Barbarossa,  who  sits 
slumbering  in  the  Kyffhauser  in  his  stone  chair,  and  has  slept 
so  long  that  his  white  beard  has  grown  down  through  the  stone 
table  ?  Even  in  his  sleep  he  often  shakes  his  head  and  gazes 
out  of  his  half-opened  eyes,  and  fumbles  for  his  sword  in 


278  Ludwig 'Borne. 


his  dreams,  and  then  nods  again  in  his  sleep  of  a  thousand 
years. 

No,  it  is  not  King  Redbeard  who  shall  free  Germany,  as  the 
people  believe — the  German  people,  the  drowsy,  dreaming 
people,  who  can  find  its  Messiah  only  in  the  form  of  an  old 
sleeper. 

The  Jews  have  a  far  better  conception  of  their  Messiah;  and 
years  ago,  when  I  was  in  Poland,  and  knew  the  great  Rabbi 
Manassa  Ben  Naphtali  at  Cracow,  I  loved  to  listen  to  him 
when  from  his  full  heart  he  spoke  of  the  Messiah.  I  forget  in 
which  book  of  the  Talmud  you  may  read  the  details  that  the 
great  rabbi  truly  related  to  me,  and  only  the  outlines  of  his 
description  yet  linger  in  my  memory.  The  Messiah,  he  said,  was 
born  on  the  day  when  Jerusalem  was  destroyed  by  the  wretch 
Titus  Vespasian,  and  ever  since  he  has  dwelt  in  the  fairest 
palace  of  heaven  in  splendor  and  joy,  wearing  on  his  head  a 
crown  like  a  king — but  his  hands  are  bound  with  golden  chains. 

"  What  mean  these  golden  chains  ?"  asked  I,  wondering. 

"  They  are  needful,"  answered   the  great  rabbi,  with  a  sly 
look  and  a  deep  sigh.     "  But  for  these  chains,  when  the  Messiah 
ofttimes  loses  patience,  he  would  hasten  down,  and  too  soon, 
at  an  unmeet  hour,  would  attempt  the  deliverance.     He  is  no 
lazy   dreamer.      He   is   handsome   and   slender,   but   terribly 
strong — and  in  the  bloom  of  youth.     The  life  he  leads  is  always 
the  same.     He  spends  most  of  the  morning  in  needful  prayer,  i 
or  in  laughter  and  jest  with  his  servants,  angels  in  flowing: 
robes  who  can  sing  sweetly  and  play  on  the  flute.     Then  they' 
comb  his  long  hair  and  anoint  him  with  yellow  nard,  and  put; 
on  him  his  princely  robe  of  purple.    All  the  afternoon  he  studies1 
the   Cabbala.     Toward   evening   he  sends  for   his   old   chan-< 
cellor,  who  is  an  angel  in  a  flowing  robe,  and  the  four  strong  i 
state  counselors  who  are  with  him  are  angels  in  flowing  robes. 
From  a  great  book  the  chancellor  reads  to  his  lord  all  that  has 
happened  that  day.     Sometimes  there  are  things  at  which  the 
Messiah  smiles  well  pleased,  or  shakes  his  head  in  anger.     But! 
when  he  hears  how  his  people  are  oppressed  here  below  he 
bursts  forth  in  a  mighty  rage  and  roars  till  all  heaven  trembles- 
Then  the  four  strong  state  counselors  must  hold  him  fast  lest 
he  should  hasten  down  to  earth  ;  and  they  could  not  master 
him  if  his  hands  were  not  bound  with  golden  chains.     Theyi 
sooth  him  with  gentle  words,  that  the  time  has  not  yet  come, 
the  true  hour  of  deliverance,  and  at  last  he  sinks  on  his  couch: 
and  hides  his  face  and  weeps." 


The  Jewish  {Messiah.  279 

Somewhat  in  these  words  did  Manassa  Ben  Naphtali  speak 
to  me  in  Cracow,  quoting  the  Talmud  to  the  truth  of  his  belief. 
During  his  talks  I  often,  especially  at  first,  thought  of  the  July 
Revolution.  Yes ;  in  the  worst  days,  I  often  thought  I  heard 
with  my  own  ears  the  clank  of  the  golden  chains,  and  sobs  of 
despair  ! 

Oh,  despair  not,  sweet  Messiah,  for  thou  shall  free,  not  Israel 
only,  as  the  Jews  believe,  but  all  suffering  mankind  !  Pluck 
not  off  thy  golden  chains  !  Oh,  hold  him  yet  awhile  enchained, 
lest  he  come  too  soon,  the  delivering  king  of  the  world  ! 


Happy  are  they  who  molder  away  quietly  in  the  prisons  of 
their  native  land — for  these  prisons  are  a  home  with  iron 
bars,  and  the  German  air  blows  through  them,  and  the  turnkey, 
if  he  be  not  dumb,  speaks  the  German  language  !  ...  It  is  now 
more  than  six  months  that  no  German  sound  has  struck  my 
ear,  and  all  my  poetry  and  aspirations  have  been  painfully 
clothed  in  a  foreign  tongue.  .  .  You  may  have  some  idea  of 
physical  exile,  but  exile  of  the  soul  no  one  can  conceive  except 
a  German  poet,  who  sees  himself  compelled  to  speak  and  write 
French  all  day,  and  even  to  whisper  French  in  the  heart  of  his 
beloved  at  night !  My  very  thoughts  are  exiled,  exiled  to  a 
foreign  tongue. 

Happy  are  they  who  in  a  foreign  land  have  to  fight  only 
with  poverty,  hunger,  and  cold,  mere  natural  evils.  Through 
the  holes  in  the  garret  roof  heaven  smiles  on  them  with  all  its 
stars.  Oh,  gilded  poverty  in  white  kid  gloves,  thou  art  unspeak- 
ably harder  to  bear  !  The  drooping  head  must  be  dressed, 
and  perhaps  sweetly  scented  ;  and  the  angry  lips  that  would 
fain  curse  heaven  and  earth  must  smile  and  smile  again. 

Happy  are  they  who  in  their  great  sufferings  have  at  last 
lost  the  last  glimmer  of  reason,  and  found  a  safe  refuge  in 
Charenton  or  Bicetre,  like  poor  F.,  poor  B.,  poor  L.,  and 
so  many  more  whom  I  knew  less  well.  In  their  eyes  the  mad 
cell  is  the  beloved  home,  and  in  their  straight  jackets  they 
fancy  themselves  the  conquerors  over  all  despots,  stout  burghers 
of  a  free  state.  .  .  But  they  might  have  had  all  this  just  as 
well  at  home  ! 

But  the  passage  from  reason  to  madness  is  a  grim  and  terri- 
ble moment.  I  shiver  when  I  think  how  F.  came  to  me  for 


280  Ludwig  'Borne. 


the  last  time,  to  argue  with  much  enthusiasm  that  the  people 
of  the  moon  and  the  dwellers  in  the  remotest  stars  ought  to  be 
taken  into  the  brotherhood  of  nations.  But  how  to  convey 
our  invitation  to  them  ?  That  was  the  great  question.  Another 
patriot  had,  with  the  same  idea,  invented  a  colossal  mirror,  by 
which  proclamations  could  be  reflected  into  the  air  in  gigantic 
letters,  so  that  all  men  might  read  them  at  once,  and  the  cen- 
sors could  never  hinder  them.  .  .  What  danger  to  the  state 
in  the  plan  !  Yet  no  mention  of  it  appears  in  the  notes  of 
the  Diet  on  revolutionary  propaganda ! 

And  happiest  of  all  are  the  dead,  who  lie  in  their  graves  in 
Pere  la  Chaise,  like  you,  poor  Borne  !  Yes  ;  happy  are  they 
who  lie  in  the  home  prisons — happy  those  in  the  garrets  of 
poverty — happy  the  mad  in  the  asylum — happiest  of  all  the 
dead  !  As  for  me,  the  writer  of  these  pages,  I  believe  I  have 
no  right  to  complain — for  I  have  shared  in  the  good  fortune 
of  all  these,  through  the  wonderful  sensibility,  the  involuntary 
sympathy  to  be  found  in  poets,  for  which  we  have  no  exact 
word.  Though  by  day  I  stroll,  hearty  and  laughing,  through 
the  bright  streets  of  Babylon,  believe  me  that,  when  evening 
falls,  sad  harp  strings  echo  through  my  heart,  and  by  night  all 
the  drums  and  cymbals  of  woe  resound  in  it ;  the  janizary 
music  of  the  world's  pain  and  the  roar  of  the  fearful  mas- 
querade rises  loud.  .  . 

Oh,  what  dreams  !  Dreams  of  prisons,  of  want,  of  madness, 
of  death  !  Shrill  cries  of  mingled  folly  and  wisdom,  a  poisoned 
dish  of  many  hues,  that  tastes  of  sauerkraut  and  smells  of 
orange  blossoms  !  What  a  terrible  sensation  when  the  dreams 
of  the  night  make  mock  of  the  day's  struggles  ;  and  from 
flaming  poppies  ghosts  peep  forth  and  jeer,  while  stately  laurel 
trees  turn  into  gray  thistles,  and  the  nightingales  utter  peals 
of  scornful  laughter.  .  . 

I  cannot  state  in  exactly  what  spot  Borne's  grave  is  to  be 
found  in  Pere  la  Chaise.  I  state  this  positively  ;  for  during 
his  life  I  was  often  asked  by  German  travelers  where  Borne 
lived,  and  now  I  am  often  teased  with  the  question,  Where  is 
Borne  buried  ?  They  say  he  lies  at  the  right  side  of  the 
cemetery,  surrounded  by  nobody  but  generals  of  the  Empire 
and  actresses  of  the  Theatre  Fran£ais, — dead  nobles  and  dead 
parrots. 

As  I  have  already  said,  I  offer  here  neither  apology  for  nor 
criticism  of  the  man.  I  only  paint  his  portrait,  with  an  exact ,' 
account  of  the  places  and  times  he  sat  tome.  At  the  same i 


'Perfidious  'Praises.  281 


time,  I  have  not  concealed  the  favorable  or  unfavorable 
opinion  I  formed  during  the  sitting.  In  this  way  I  furnish 
the  best  standard  of  the  amount  of  credit  my  remarks 
deserve. 

And  while  this  constant  introduction  of  my  personality 
affords  the  reader  the  best  means  of  judging  for  himself,  I  feel 
bound  for  another  reason  to  present  myself  personally  in  this 
book,  inasmuch  as,  through  a  concurrence  of  circumstances, 
both  the  enemies  and  friends  of  Borne  never  fail  to  comment 
favorably  or  unfavorably  on  my  poems  and  designs  whenever 
the  occasion  arises.  The  aristocratic  party  in  Germany,  well 
aware  that  my  moderate  language  is  far  more  dangerous  than 
Borne's  berserker  rage,  was  fond  of  decrying  me  as  one  of  his 
set  who  shared  his  opinions,  in  hopes  of  laying  on  my  shoul- 
ders some  of  the  responsibility  for  his  political  crazes.  The 
radical  party,  not  seeing  through  this  stratagem,  supported  the 
theory,  in  order  to  make  me  pass  in  men's  eyes  as  one  of  its 
followers,  and  so  profit  by  the  authority  of  my  name.  It  was 
impossible  to  take  any  open  steps  against  these  machinations. 
I  should  only  have  laid  myself  open  to  the  suspicion  of 
disavowing  Borne  to  gain  favor  with  his  enemies.  Under 
these  circumstances  Borne  did  me  a  real  favor  by  openly 
attacking  me,  not  only  in  a  few  sharp  words,  but  in  long  ex- 
planations, in  which  he  enlightened  the  public  on  the  difference 
that  existed  between  his  aims  and  mine.  This  he  did  espe- 
cially in  the  sixth  volume  of  his  "  Parisian  Letters  "and  in  two 
articles  that  he  printed  in  the  French  periodical  Le  Reforma- 
teur.  These  articles,  which,  as  I  have  said,  I  never  answered, 
gave  a  chance  for  speaking  of  me  whenever  Borne  was  the 
subject  of  conversation — though  in  a  very  different  tone  now 
from  before.  The  aristocrats  heaped  the  most  perfidious 
praises  upon  me,  almost  enough  to  crush  me  to  the  earth  ;  I 
had  suddenly  become  a  great  poet  again,  now  that  I  had  seen 
that  I  could  no  longer  play  my  political  part  of  absurd 
radicalism.  On  the  other  hand,  the  radicals  now  began  to 
attack  me  openly  (they  had  always  done  so  in  secret).  They 
hardly  left  me  a  hair  on  my  head  or  a  shred  of  character,  and 
spared  nothing  but  the  poet.  So  I  got  my  political  discharge, 
as  I  may  say,  and  was  relegated  to  Parnassus.  Those  who 
know  the  two  parties  I  speak  of  will  not  think  much  of  their 
magnanimity  in  leaving  me  the  title  of  a  poet.  One  can  see  in 
a  poet  nothing  but  a  dreamy  courtier  of  a  vain  idol.  The 


282  Ludwig  'Borne. 


others  see  nothing  whatever  in  a  poet.     Poetry  fails  to  wake 
the  slightest  echo  in  their  starved  vacuity. 

Just  what  a  poet  is  we  will  leave  undecided.  But  we  can- 
not forbear  giving  our  opinion  with  all  deference  on  the  idea 
that  people  attach  to  the  word  "character." 

What  is  meant  by  the  word  "  character  "  ?  He  has  character 
who  lives  and  moves  within  the  fixed  circle  of  a  fixed  view  of 
life,  identifying  himself  with  it,  as  it  were,  and  never  finding 
himself  in  opposition  to  his  own  thoughts  and  feelings.  With 
very  distinguished  natures  far  in  advance  of  their  times,  there- 
fore, the  multitude  can  never  know  whether  they  have  char- 
acter or  not ;  for  the  multitude  cannot  take  a  wide  enough 
view  to  embrace  the  circles  within  which  such  lofty  spirits 
move.  Indeed,  as  the  multitude  does  not  know  the  limits  of 
the  desires  and  necessities  of  these  lofty  spirits,  it  may  easily 
fail  to  see  any  right  or  necessity  in  what  they  do  ;  and  in  its 
intellectual  imbecility  and  short-sightedness  it  finds  fault  with 
their  arbitrariness,  inconsistency,  and  want  of  character.  Less 
gifted  men,  whose  superficial  and  narrow  views  of  life  are 
more  easily  surveyed  and  fathomed,  and  who  have,  as  it  were, 
once  for  all  proclaimed  the  programme  of  their  lives  in  the  open 
market,  are  apprehended  as  a  consistent  whole  by  the  worthy! 
public,  which  can  measure  all  their  actions  by  rule,  and  is 
pleased  with  its  own  cleverness  as  if  it  had  guessed  a  charade, 
and  cries  out,  "  That  is  a  man  of  character  !  " 

It  is  always  a  sign  of  narrow  ability  when  a  man  is  easily 
understood  by  the  narrow  crowd  and  especially  proclaimed  a 
character.  This  is  especially  true  with  writers,  for  theiri 
deeds  are  but  words,  and  what  the  public  honors  in  them  as 
character  is  in  truth  nothing  but  a  slavish  surrender  to  the 
moment,  and  an  absence  of  the  statuesque  calm  of  art. 

The  saying  that  a  writer's  character  is  shown  in  his  writings 
is  not  absolutely  correct ;  it  is  only  true  of  the  crowd  of 
authors  who  in  writing  follow  the  momentary  inspiration  of, 
their  pens,  and  obey  the  word  rather  than  command  it.  The! 
idea  is  inadmissible  as  to  the  true  artist,  who  is  master  of  his 
words,  bending  them  to  any  desired  end,  giving  them  such 
stamp  as  he  chooses.  He  writes  objectively,  and  his  style  is 
no  guide  to  his  character. 

The  distinction  between  the  poet  and  the  man  of  charactei 
came  first  from  Borne  himself,  and  he  had  already  expressec 
all  the  mean  conclusions  which  his  adherents  afterward  reelec 


Character.  283 


off  against  the  writer  of  these  pages.  In  the  "  Parisian  Letters  " 
and  the  articles  in  the  Rtformateur  already  mentioned, 
there  was  a  deal  of  talk  of  my  characterless  poetry  and  my 
poetic  want  of  character,  and  various  poisonous  insinuations 
crept  and  crawled  through  them.  Not  in  positive  words,  but 
by  hints,  I  was  accused  of  double  meaning — when  I  was 
allowed  to  have  any  meaning  at  all  !  In  the  same  way  I  was 
charged  not  only  with  indifference,  but  with  self-contradiction. 
Some  whispers  were  even  heard  which — (can  the  dead  blush 
in  their  graves  ?) — yes,  I  cannot  spare  the  departed  one  the 
shame  ; — he  absolutely  hinted  at  bribery.  .  . 

Oh,  fair,  sweet  rest  that  I  now  feel  in  my  innermost  soul  ! 
Thou  repayest  me  for  all  I  did  and  all  I  despised.  I  will  not 
defend  myself  from  the  charge  of  indifference  or  the  suspicion 
of  corruption.  For  years,  while  the  insinuator  lived,  I  thought 
it  unworthy  of  me  ;  and  decency  now  counsels  silence.  It 
would  be  a  ghastly  show — a  dispute  between  Death  and  Exile  ! 
Do  you  hold  out  from  the  grave  an  imploring  hand  ?  I  give 
you  mine  without  malice.  See  how  white  and  clean  it  is  ! 
It  was  never  soiled  by  the  clasp  of  the  populace  or  the  filthy 
gold  of  the  people's  enemies.  You  never  did  me  any  real 
harm.  . 


The  kings  are  departing,  and  with  them  go  the  last  poets. 
"  The  poet  shall  go  with  the  king  " — the  words  must  now  take 
quite  a  new  meaning.  Without  a  belief  in  authority  no  great 
poet  can  arise.  When  the  pitiless  light  of  the  press  is  thrown 
on  his  private  life,  and  the  critics  of  the  day  mumble  and  gnaw 
his  words,  the  poet's  songs  can  no  longer  find  due  honor.  As 
Dante  passed  through  the  streets  of  Verona  the  people  pointed 
at  him  and  whispered,  "  He  went  to  hell !  "  How  else  could  he 
have  painted  it  so  truly  with  all  its  horrors  ?  How  much  more 
deeply  for  such  a  terrible  belief  were  their  souls  moved  by  the 
story  of  Francesco,  da  Rimini,  of  Ugolino,  and  other  dread 
shapes  that  shook  the  spirit  of  the  great  poet.  .  .  Nay,  they 
did  not  merely  shake  his  spirit — he  did  not  create  them — he 
loved  them,  he  felt  them,  he  saw  and  touched  them  ;  he  was 
really  in  hell,  in  the  realm  of  the  damned.  .  .  He  was  in 
exile ! 

The  dry,  workday  notions  of  modern  puritanism  are  spread- 
ing all  over  Europe,  like  the  gray  light  before  a  winter's  day. 


284  Ludwig  'Borne. 


What  mean  the  poor  nightingales,  that  they  pour  out  theii 
melodious  sobs  more  sadly  than  ever  in  the  German  poet 
groves  ?  They  sing  a  sad  farewell.  The  last  nymphs  that 
Christianity  had  spared  flee  to  the  deepest  shades.  In  what 
woeful  plight  I  saw  them  last  night !  As  if  the  bitter  reality 
had  not  enough  of  sadness,  terrible  visions  shake  me  by  night. 
In  stern  hieroglyphics  did  my  dream  show  me  the  great  woe  I 
would  fain  hide  from  myself,  and  which  I  scarce  dare  to  tell  in 
the  plain  accents  of  broad  day. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
public  affairs. 

PARIS,  September,  1840. 

I  HAVE  just  returned  from  a  rather  fruitless  excursion 
through  Brittany.  A  terribly  bare  country,  and  the  people 
dull  and  dirty.  I  heard  none  of  the  beautiful  folk-songs  that 
1  hoped  to  pick  up.  They  are  now  to  be  found  only  in  old 
song  books,  of  which  I  bought  several  ;  but  as  they  are  in  the 
Breton  dialect,  I  must  get  them  translated  into  French  before 
I  can  say  anything  about  them.  The  only  song  I  heard  sung 
on  my  trip  was  a  German  one.  While  I  was  under  the  barber's 
hands  in  Rennes  someone  in  the  street  bleated  the  "  Bridal 
Wreath  "  from  the  Freischiitz  in  German.  I  did  not  see  the 
singer  himself,  but  his  "  violet  blue  silk  "  rang  in  my  head  all 
day.  German  beggars  swarm  in  France  now,  getting  a  living 
by  singing,  and  not  improving  the  reputation  of  German 
musical  art. 

PARIS,  September  14,  1840. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 

I  have  been  back  in  Paris  since  night  before  last,  after  a 
pleasant  journey  through  Brittany,  in  which  I  picked  up  some 
lovely  folk-songs.  At  Saint  Lo  I  found  your  letter,  and  my 
wonder  did  not  cease  till  I  had  received  the  Telegraph  here. 
Just  now,  half  an  hour  ago,  I  also  received  the  other  papers 
you  sent  to  Granville,  which  followed  me  hither. 

I  assure  you  the  annoyance  was  but  skin  deep  that  I  felt  at 
the  shameful  stories  against  me,  woven  by  the  arch-plotter  with 
the  help  of  the  Frankfort  pack  ;  I  am  cheerful  and  easy  in  my 
mind,  for  I  am  used  to  abuse,  and  know  that  the  future  is 
mine.  Even  if  I  should  die  now  there  are  four  volumes 
remaining  of  the  story  of  my  life,  or  memoirs,  which,  describing 
my  ideas  and  hopes,  will  go  down  to  posterity,  if  only  on 
account  of  their  historical  matter  and  true  picture  of  the 
mysteries  of  the  transition  crisis.  The  new  generation  will  be 
glad  to  see  the  swaddling  clothes  they  were  first  wrapped  in. 

385 


286  ^Public  ^Affairs. 


But  what  troubles  me,  dear  Campe,  is  that  you  should  have 
again  fallen  into  the  hands  of  my  enemies,  as  a  toy  and  a 
weapon  against  me.  I  now  know  all,  and  so  do  not  blame  you. 
I  believe  you  will  not  long  bear  with  these  intriguers  and  con- 
spirators ;  for  your  better  self  will  not  allow  you  to  be  satisfied 
with  any  mere  fancied  necessity  ;  and  so  I  will  not  gratify 
people  by  breaking  with  you,  although  everything  tempts  me 
to  do  so.  You  are  quite  right  ;  no  one  will  believe  that  you 
did  not  read  M.  Gutzkow's  essay  before  it  was  printed,  and 
printed  in  a  paper  that  must  be  considered  as  bearing  your 
respected  name  as  responsible  editor. 

What  I  shall  do  I  do  not  yet  know.  I  found  on  my  return 
much  more  important  things  to  attend  to.  I  am  patient,  for  I 
am  eternal,  saith  the  Lord  ! 

You  have  behaved  very  unjustifiably  to  my  book.  You 
know  very  well  the  smithy  where  the  various  articles  were 
forged  which  will  injure  it  ;  and  you  try  to  persuade  me  you 
thought  their  intentions  were  fair  and  impartial. 


JANUARY  6,  1841. 

The  new  year  began  like  the  old  one  with  music  and  danc- 
ing. The  grand  opera  echoes  to  Donizetti's  melodies,  to  fill 
up  the  time  till  the  coming  of  the  "  Prophet " — namely,  Meyer- 
beer's work  of  that  name.  At  the  Odeon,  nest  of  Italian 
nightingales,  more  melting  than  ever  are  the  strains  of  Rubini, 
growing  old,  and  Grisi,  the  ever  young,  the  singing  flower  of 
beauty.  Concerts  have  begun  also  in  the  rival  halls  of  Hertz 
and  Erard,  the  two  artists  in  wood.  Anyone  who  does  not 
find  chances  enough  of  being  bored  in  these  public  establish- 
ments of  Polyhymnia  can  yawn  to  his  heart's  content  at  private 
parties.  A  crowd  of  young  amateurs,  who  give  us  frightful 
hopes,  can  be  heard  in  all  keys  and  on  every  possible  instru- 
ment. 

The  outbreak  of  a  war,  which  lies  in  the  nature  of  things,  is 
adjourned  for  the  present.  Short-sighted  politicians,  whose 
only  refuge  is  in  palliatives,  have  set  their  minds  at  ease,  and 
are  hoping  for  a  period  of  undisturbed  peace.  Especially  our 
financiers  see  everything  once  more  in  a  hopeful  light.  Even 
the  greatest  of  them  seems  under  this  delusion,  though  not  at 
all  times.  Herr  von  Rothschild,  who  seemed  indisposed  for 
some  time,  is  quite  recovered  and  looks  sound  and  well.  The 
astrologers  of  the  Bourse,  who  understand  the  great  baron's 


Rothschild.  287 

face  perfectly,  assure  us  that  the  swallows  of  peace  have  built 
their  nests  in  his  smile,  that  all  fears  of  war  have  fled  from  his 
face,  that  there  are  no  lightnings  in  his  eye,  and  that  the  can- 
non storm  that  threatened  the  world  has  rolled  away.  His 
very  sneeze  is  of  peace.  It  is  true  that  the  last  time  I  had  the 
honor  of  waiting  on  Herr  von  Rothschild  he  was  beaming  with 
cheerful  content,  and  his  roseate  humor  was  almost  poetical  ; 
for,  as  I  once  said,  at  such  bright  moments  the  baron  lets  the 
stream  of  his  content  flow  in  rhyme.  Although  he  succeeded 
quite  well  on  this  occasion,  he  could  not  find  a  rhyme  to  "  Con- 
stantinople," and  scratched  his  head,  as  all  poets  do  in  search 
of  a  rhyme.  As  I  am  a  bit  of  a  poet  myself,  I  took  the  liberty 
of  asking  the  baron  whether  the  Russian  zobel  (sable)  would 
not  rhyme  with  Constantinople.  But  the  rhyme  did  not  seem 
to  please  him  ;  he  did  not  think  England  would  endure  it,  and 
it  might  cause  an  European  war,  that  would  cost  the  world 
much  blood  and  himself  a  deal  of  money. 

Herr  von  Rothschild  is  really  the  best  of  political  ther- 
mometers ;  I  will  not  compare  him  to  a  tree  toad,  because  it 
would  not  sound  respectful.  And  we  must  be  respectful  to 
him,  if  only  out  of  the  respect  he  inspires  in  most  people.  I 
like  best  to  visit  him  in  his  office  at  the  counting  house,  where 
I  can  make  philosophical  observation  of  the  way  people — not 
alone  the  chosen  people  of  the  Lord,  but  all  other  people — 
bow  and  cringe  before  him.  There  is  a  bending  and  twisting 
of  spines  that  a  contortionist  could  hardly  beat.  I  see  some 
who  jump  as  they  approach  the  great  baron  as  if  they  had 
touched  a  voltaic  pile.  At  the  door  of  his  room  many  are 
taken  with  a  shudder  of  awe,  such  as  seized  Moses  on  Horab, 
when  he  stood  on  holy  ground.  And  as  Moses  forthwith  took 
off  his  shoes,  so  many  a  broker  and  agent  de  change  would 
certainly  pull  of  his  boots  before  daring  to  step  into  Herr  von 
Rothschild's  office  but  for  the  fear  that  his  feet  might  smell  worse 
than  his  boots,  and  the  odor  might  be  unpleasant  to  the  Herr 
Baron.  This  private  office  is  truly  a  wonderful  place,  exciting 
noble  thoughts  and  emotions,  like  the  sight  of  the  sea  or  the 
starry  heavens.  There  we  see  how  small  is  man  and  how  great 
is  God  !  For  money  is  the  god  of  our  times,  and  Rothschild 
is  his  prophet. 

Some  years  ago,  as  I  was  going  in  to  see  Herr  von  Roths- 
child, a  servant  in  gorgeous  livery  was  carrying  his  chamber- 
vessel  through  the  entry,  and  a  speculator,  who  was  passing 
at  the  moment,  respectfully  took  off  his  hat  to  the  mighty  vase. 


288  Tublic  Affairs. 


So  far,  with  respect  be  it  said,  does  the  respect  of  some  people 
go.  I  noted  the  devoted  man's  name  ;  and  I  am  persuaded  he 

will  in  time  be  a  millionaire.  When  I  once  told  Herr that 

I  breakfasted  with  Baron  Rothschild  en  famillc  in  his  private 
room  he  clasped  his  hands  in  astonishment,  and  declared  that 
I  had  enjoyed  an  honor  hitherto  paid  only  to  Rothschilds  by 
blood  and  certain  reigning  princes,  and  one  for  which  he 

would  gladly  give  half  his  nose.  I  may  observe  that  Herr 's 

nose,  even  if  he  sacrificed  half  of  it,  would  be  of  a  good  length. 

Too  great  riches  are  harder  to  bear  than  poverty.  I  advise 
anyone  who  is  in  great  want  of  money  to  go  to  Herr  von 
Rothschild — not  to  borrow  (for  I  doubt  if  he  would  get  any 
considerable  sum),  but  to  console  himself  with  the  sight  of 
such  rich  misery.  The  poor  devil  who  has  nothing  and  can- 
not help  himself  will  be  convinced  that  here  is  a  man  who  is 
still  more  unfortunate,  because  he  has  too  much  money — be- 
cause money  is  forever  running  into  his  gigantic  cosmopolitan 
pockets,  and  he  is  forced  to  carry  round  such  a  burden,  while 
hungry  and  thieving  crowds  all  round  him  are  all  holding  out 
their  hands  :  and  what  frightful  and  dangerous  hands  !  "  How 
are  you?"  a  German  poet  once  asked  the  baron.  "I  am 
mad,"  he  answered.  "  As  long  as  you  do  not  throw  money 
out  of  the  window  I  shall  not  believe  that,"  said  the  poet. 
The  baron  interrupted  him  with  a  sigh.  "That  is  just  how  I 
am  mad — I  never  do  throw  any  money  out  of  the  window." 

How  unhappy  the  rich  are  in  this  life — and  they  never  get 
to  heaven  after  death.  "  It  is  easier  for  a  camel  to  go  through 
the  eye  of  a  needle  than  for  a  rich  man  to  enter  the  kingdom 
of  heaven.  '  These  words  of  the  holy  communist  are  a  terrible 
anathema,  and  prove  his  bitter  hatred  of  the  Bourse  and  haute 
finance  of  Jerusalem. 


PARIS,  January  27,  1841. 
To  Gustav  Kolb : 

I  still  suffer  from  my  headaches,  which  make  all  labor  irk- 
some. But  I  hope  soon  to  be  busy  again,  and  at  any  event 
you  may  count  on  me  for  any  important  matter.  A  sinister 
feeling  prevails  here  in  secret,  and  we  are  not  safe  from  some 
terrible  outbreak.  I  am  much  afraid  of  the  atrocities  of  mob 
rule,  and  confess  that  my  fears  have  made  me  a  conservative. 
You  will  not  have  to  strike  out  much  in  my  articles  this  year, 


289 


and  may  be  compelled  to  smile  at  my  moderation  and  timidity. 
I  have  looked  down  into  the  bottom  of  things,  and  my  head 
swims.  I  am  afraid  I  am  falling  backward.  Farewell,  and 
think  of  me  kindly  under  all  circumstances. 


PARIS,  March  3,  1841. 
To  Georg  von  Cotta  : 

As  to  being  paid,  I  am  like  the  cook  who  delicately  declared 
she  cared  less  in  her  work  for  the  money  than  for  kind  treat- 
ment. The  political  sea  is  calm  ;  so  I  write  but  little — some 
months  not  at  all ;  but  as  soon  as  it  begins  to  heave  and  break 
again  you  may  count  on  the  most  conscientious  daily  intelli- 
gence. I  have  now  been  ten  years  in  Paris,  and  know  the 
signs  of  the  weather. 


CHAPTER  XV. 
Duel  and  Carriage. 

CAUTERETS,  HAUTES  PYRE"NE"ES,  July  3,  1841. 
To  Gustav  Kolb : 

I  write  you  to-day,  and  with  my  own  hand,  to  show  you  that 
I  am  neither  blind  nor  mortally  ill,  and  still  less  dead,  as  the 
French  papers  declare.  But  I  am  much  exhausted  by  the 
baths  I  am  taking  here — much  exhausted,  and  it  is  an  effort 
for  me  to  hold  a  pen. 

Cauterets  is  one  of  the  wildest  ravines  of  the  Pyrenees,  but 
not  so  inaccessible  as  many  worthy  people  think,  who  fancy 
that  I  do  not  hear  anything  of  the  lies  against  my  good  name 
that  they  are  hatching  ;  at  all  events,  they  think  no  possible 
contradiction  can  be  looked  for  until  my  return  to  Paris,  if 
they  do  not  count  on  my  usual  silence.  A  number  of  the 
Mayence  Journal  happened  to  reach  me  to-day,  containing  the 
vile  stories  that  you  no  doubt  read  with  amazement.  I  can 
hardly  believe  my  eyes !  There  is  not  one  syllable  of  truth  in 
it.  I  am  not  a  lamb  who  allowed  himself  to  be  insulted  in  the 
streets  of  Paris,  and  the  man  who  boasts  of  it  is  the  last  lion  in 
the  world  who  would  dare  to  do  it  !  The  whole  matter  con- 
sisted in  a  few  sputtering  words  with  which  this  individual 
came  up  to  me,  shaking  convulsively,  and  which  I  laughingly 
put  an  end  to  by  giving  him  my  address,  with  the  information 
that  I  was  upon  the  point  of  starting  for  the  Pyrenees — and 
that  "if  anyone  had  anything  to  say  to  me  "  he  could  wait  a 
few  weeks  until  my  return,  "  as  he  had  sent  me  no  word  for 
twelve  months."  This  is  the  whole  affair,  to  which  there  were 
no  witnesses,  and  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor.  In  the  whirl 
of  business  that  one  is  overwhelmed  with  on  the  day  before  a 
journey,  it  almost  escaped  my  particular  notice.  But  I  see 
now  that  the  fact  that  I  could  call  no  eyewitnesses,  that  his 
testimony  stood  alone  after  I  had  gone,  and  that  my  enemies 
would  not  look  too  closely  into  his  credibility,  have  emboldened 
the  individual  to  get  up  the  disgraceful  article  printed  by  the 
Mayence  paper.  I  have  to  deal  with  the  flower  of  the  Frank- 


c//  ^Preliminary  Explanation.  291 

fort  ghetto  and  a  revengeful  woman.  I  need  not  be  surprised. 
But  what  can  I  say  of  editors  and  correspondents  who,  from 
frivolity  or  prejudice,  uphold  such  misconduct  ? 

I  shall  be  back  in  Paris  in  eight  or,  at  the  farthest,  ten 
weeks  from  the  day  of  my  departure,  or  flight,  as  my  enemies 
call  it,  and  much  benefited,  I  think.  In  front  of  my  window 
a  wild  mountain  stream  called  the  Gave  dashes  down  over  the 
cliff,  and  its  continual  roar  puts  all  thought  to  sleep  and 
awakens  tender  emotions.  Nature  is  very  beautiful  and  grand 
here.  The  cliffs  that  rise  to  heaven  round  me  are  so  still,  so 
passionless,  so  happy  !  They  care  not  a  whit  for  our  daily 
cares  and  party  quarrels  ;  they  are  almost  insulting  in  their 
terrible  insensibility — but  it  is  perhaps  only  in  their  outward 
appearance.  Perhaps  they  inwardly  cherish  a  pity  for  the  woes 
and  sorrows  of  men  ;  and  when  we  are  ill  and  suffering  they 
open  their  stony  veins  and  warm  streams  of  health  flow  out 
upon  us.  The  mountain  springs  here  work  wonders  daily,  and 
I  hope  I  shall  get  better.  We  hear  little  of  politics.  The 
people  live  a  quiet,  peaceful  life ;  and  you  can  hardly  believe 
that  revolutions  and  war  storms,  these  wild  sports  of  our  times, 
ever  cross  the  Pyrenees.  These  people  are  as  firmly  rooted  in 
their  wonted  ways  as  the  flowers  in  the  mountain  sides  ;  a 
political  breeze  occasionally  stirs  the  tops  of  the  trees,  or  the 
notion  of  an  idea  flutters  on  high. 

A  PRELIMINARY  EXPLANATION. 

CAUTERETS,  July  7,  1841. 

Wounded  vanity,  professional  jealousy,  literary  envy,  political 
ill-feeling,  pitiful  creatures  of  all  kinds,  have  frequently  used 
the  daily  press  to  circulate  the  most  hateful  stories  of  my  pri- 
vate life  ;  and  I  have  always  left  it  to  time  to  show  the  absurdity 
of  it  all.  In  my  absence  from  my  home  it  would  have  been 
impossible  for  me  to  keep  a  proper  watch  on  the  papers  there, 
which  reached  me  in  small  numbers  and  always  very  late — to 
promptly  follow  up  every  anonymous  lie,  and  hunt  down  the 
concealed  fleas.  If  I  to-day  vouchsafe  to  the  public  the  amus- 
ing spectacle  of  such  a  chase,  I  am  influenced  less  by  any 
personal  vexation  than  by  a  sincere  desire  to  serve  in  this  way 
the  interests  of  German  newspaper  writers.  And  I  say  to- 
day that  the  French  custom  which,  under  the  code  of  honor, 
intrusts  to  a  man's  personal  courage  his  reply  to  vulgar  attacks 
of  the  press,  must  be  introduced  among  us.  Sooner  or  later 


292  'Duel  and  ZMarriage. 


all  upright  minds  will  recognize  the  necessity,  and  find  a  way 
of  checking  this  blotting  paper  roughness  and  vulgarity.  For 
myself,  I  heartily  wisli  the  gods  would  give  me  a  chance  of 
setting  a  good  example  !  I  would  especially  note  that  the  dis- 
tinctions of  rank  of  the  period  of  literary  art  came  to  an  end 
with  it  ;  and  that  the  most  royal  genius  will  be  forced  to  give 
satisfaction  to  the  mangiest  rapscallion,  if  he  speaks  without 
due  respect  of  his  tangled  pate.  We  are  now,  God  save  us,  all 
equal  !  That  is  the  result  of  the  democratic  principles  for 
which  I  have  fought  all  my  life.  I  have  long  seen  this,  and 
been  ready  to  give  the  required  satisfaction  to  any  challenger. 
If  anyone  doubted  this,  he  could  easily  satisfy  himself.  But 
no  formal  proposition  of  the  sort  has  ever  been  made  to  me. 
What  is  stated  on  this  point  in  an  anonymous  article  in  the 
Mayence  Journal,  together  with  the  story  told  of  a  personal 
insult  to  me,  is  a  pure,  or,  rather,  a  dirty  lie.  Not  one  word  of 
truth  !  I  did  not  receive  the  slightest  personal  insult  from 
anyone  in  the  streets  of  Paris  ;  and  the  hero,  the  horned 
Siegfried,  who  boasts  of  knocking  me  down  in  the  open  street, 
and  rests  the  truth  of  his  statement  on  his  own  testimony,  on 
his  approved  credibility,  and  perhaps  on  the  authority  of  his 
word  of  honor,  is  a  well-known  poor  devil,  a  Knight  of  the 
Sorrowful  Countenance,  who,  to  serve  a  cunning  woman,  made 
the  same  boast  about  me  a  year  ago.  On  this  occasion  he  has 
tried  to  give  his  revamped  invention  circulation  through  the 
press,  and  written  the  above  mentioned  article  in  the  Mayence 
Journal,  The  lie  obtained  currency  for  some  weeks,  as  it  was 
not  till  late  and  quite  by  chance  that  I  heard  of  the  pretty  fab- 
rication, here  in  the  Pyrenees,  on  the  borders  of  Spain,  and 
could  refute  it.  Perhaps  the  calculation  was  that  I  should  on 
this  occasion  also  treat  the  lie  with  silent  contempt.  Knowing 
my  men,  I  am  not  surprised  at  their  worthy  calculations.  But 
what  shall  I  say  of  a  correspondent  of  the  Leipsic  Allgemeine 
Zeitung,  who  so  confidently  indorsed  the  vile  report,  and  was 
satisfied  with  the  worst  possible  authority  when  my  good  name 
was  to  be  attacked  ?  We  will  pronounce  judgment  in  a  proper 
place.  We  respectfully  request  the  editors  of  German  papers, 
who  were  so  prompt  in  giving  publicity  to  this  lie,  to  be  equally 
ready  to  welcome  the  truth  that  comes  hobbling  after  it. 

PARIS,  August  23,  1841. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 
M.  Straus  will  still  not  fight,  as  I  heard  only  on  Wednes- 


ZMatbilde  Heine.  293 


day.  But  we  are  all  the  more  eager  for  a  meeting,  and  the 
matter  will  not  be  settled  without  some  powder  smoke.  I  am 
prepared  for  anything,  and  while  the  other  party  rails  and 
blusters  I  keep  quiet  and  determined.  This  makes  the  best 
impression,  and  also  shows  which  side  justice  and  right  are  on. 


PARIS,  September  5,  1841. 

To-day  I  send  you  news  of  an  event  of  which  I  forewarned 
you  some  days  since — namely,  my  marriage  with  the  lovely 
and  honest  creature  who  has  lived  by  my  side  for  years  as 
Mathilde  Heine,  was  always  respected  and  looked  upon  as  my 
wife,  and  was  defiled  with  foul  names  only  by  some  scandal- 
loving  Germans  of  the  Frankfort  clique.  I  took  steps,  both 
legal  and  religious,  to  preserve  her  honor  at  the  same  time  that 
I  was  defending  my  own,  which,  though  in  little  danger  from 
the  mere  assertions  of  Straus,  was  seriously  compromised  by 
the  infamous  testimony  of  third  persons.  I  must  confess  my 
spirit  was  never  so  crushed  as  on  the  day  when  I  read  that 
infamous  declaration  ;  and  had  I  not  succeeded  in  unmasking 
and  refuting  the  rascals  I  should  have  had  recourse  to  terrible 
and  dreadful  measures.  They  are  now  going  about  like  dis- 
honorable curs,  trying  to  tempt  me  to  some  step  through  which 
they  can  take  Straus's  place.  But  I  do  not  allow  myself  to  be 
turned  from  the  straight  path.  I  will  get  him  on  the  ground  ; 
and  though  he  is  seeking  all  means  of  escape  I  hope  to  gain 
my  end.  A  few  days  ago  I  was  on  the  point  of  fighting,  when 
my  second  sent  me  word  in  the  night  that  one  of  Straus's  sec- 
onds could  not  appear,  and  that  the  duel,  which  was  to  have 
come  off  early  in  the  morning,  was  again  postponed.  Straus 
now  declares  that  the  police  mean  to  protect  his  precious  head, 
and  that  he  is  watched.  But  this  is  only  a  short  reprieve  ;  he 
must  meet  me  if  I  have  to  follow  him  to  the  Chinese  Wall.  If 
a  man  wants  to  fight  he  can  get  over  all  obstacles.  They  are 
trying  to  tire  me  out,  but  it  will  not  succeed.  Farewell. 


PARIS,  September  9. 

I  send  you  in  brief  the  conclusion  of  the  story  of  the  box  on 
the  ear,  as  they  call  it.  Day  before  yesterday,  at  half-past 
seven  o'clock,  I  at  last  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  Herr 
Straus  on  the  ground.  He  showed  more  courage  than  I  had 


294  Tiuel  and  ^Marriage. 

given  him  credit  for,  and  the  result  was  beyond  measure  favor- 
able to  him.  His  ball  grazed  my  hip,  which  is  at  this  moment 
much  swollen  and  black  as  a  coal.  I  have  to  keep  in  bed,  and 
shall  not  be  able  to  walk  well  for  some  time.  Apparently  the 
bone  was  not  injured,  only  receiving  a  bad  jar,  which  I  still  feel. 
So  the  matter  did  not  end  very  fortunately  for  me,  physically 
nor  morally.  Farewell. 


The  sky  was  so  clear,  so  blue  !  All  the  apple  trees  were  in 
blossom.  From  the  fields  around  came  odors  that  made  me 
a  hundred  times  stronger.  I  called  on  Flora  and  Pomona. 
Within  sight  of  death  all  my  heathenism  came  back  to  my 
heart.  Doubtless  God  did  not  will  that  I  should  be  struck  by 
a  bullet  in  a  moment  when  my  head  was  full  of  nothing  but 
the  beauties  of  this  world, — those  which  speak  only  to  the 
senses. 


[TO  HIS  SISTER.] 

PARIS,  September  13,  1841. 

Dearest  Sister :  This  is  the  first  day  that  I  have  been  able 
to  send  you  an  official  announcement  of  my  wedding.  On  the 
3ist  of  August  I  was  married  to  Mathilde  Creszentia  Mirat, 
with  whom  I  have  quarreled  every  day  these  six  years.  She 
has,  however,  a  noble  and  pure  heart,  and  is  as  good  as  an 
angel.  Her  conduct  in  the  many  years  we  have  lived  together 
has  been  so  entirely  faultless  that  she  has  been  esteemed  by  all 
my  friends  and  acquaintances  a  pattern  of  modesty.  .  . 


PARIS,  October  4,  1841. 
To  Julius  Campe : 

I  duly  received  your  letter  of  the  26th  of  September,  and 
thank  you  for  the  interest  you  show  in  my  personal  concerns. 
I  should  like  to  comply  with  your  and  my  mother's  wishes  and 
make  a  visit  there  for  a  while  ;  but  in  the  first  place  my  purse 
will  not  allow  me  to  make  a  move,  and  secondly,  my  departure 
would  be  misconstrued.  Besides,  the  winter  climate  there 
never  suited  me,  and  I  am  quite  unwell  at  present ;  the  inter- 
ruption of  my  baths  did  my  poor  head  a  deal  of  harm. 


Wounded  and  (Married.  295 


PARIS,  October  13,  1841. 
To  August  Lewald: 

If  I  have  not  answered  your  kind  letter  until  to-day  it  is  the 
fault  of  my  poor  head,  which,  since  I  so  unfortunately  sus- 
pended my  treatment  at  the  baths  in  the  Pyrenees,  has  suffered 
from  its  old  pain  ;  indeed,  it  has  grown  so  severe  that  my  doc- 
tor has  forbidden  me  pen  and  ink.  My  enemies  reckoned  not 
only  on  my  absence,  but  on  my  ill  health,  when  they  made  that 
shameless  plot  against  me  which,  thank  God,  I  so  thoroughly 
exposed.  Whether  the  general  public  understands  all  the  ras- 
cality as  well  as  more  intelligent  people  do,  I  do  not  know,  but 
suspect  not ;  and  in  this  view  it  would  be  well  if  something 
should  happen  to  reveal  more  thoroughly  the  abomination  of 
this  newspaper  outrage. 

I  am  quite  alone  ;  but  I  rely  on  one  thing — that  I  have  never 
been  guilty  of  the  smallest  equivocal  action,  and  my  enemies 
have  always  been  driven  to  lies  which  recoiled  on  themselves. 
I  thank  you  for  your  kind  invitation  to  visit  you  in  Germany  ; 
but  that  cannot  be.  You  have  no  doubt  heard  that,  in  order 
to  secure  Mathilde's  position  in  the  world,  I  was  forced,  a  few 
days  before  the  duel,  to  turn  my  wild  marriage  into  a  tame  one. 
This  matrimonial  duel,  which  will  end  only  when  one  of  us 
dies,  is  certainly  more  perilous  than  my  short  encounter  with 
Salomon  Straus  of  Jew  Lane,  Frankfort.  You  have  no  idea 
of  the  quantity  of  intrigue  and  malice  that  has  been  directed 
against  me  from  that  quarter  for  years.  Damascus  is  really  no 
fable.  Remember  me  to  Laube  when  you  see  him.  His  desire 
to  publish  an  authentic  account  of  that  wretched  story  I  can- 
not yet  satisfy  ;  for  I  should  be  accused  of  passion,  and  there 
is  nothing  in  my  heart  but  the  coldest  contempt  for  the  clique 
that  tried  to  murder  my  honor  in  the  most  cold-blooded  fashion. 


Life  was  pleasant  to  me  ;  I  had  become  the  favorite  poet  of 
the  Germans,  and  was  even  crowned  like  a  German  emperor  at 
Frankfort.  White-robed  maidens  strewed  flowers  before  me. 
Oh,  it  was  sweet !  Why,  then,  must  I  go  home  through  Jew 
Lane,  which,  as  you  perhaps  know,  is  not  far  from  the  town- 
house.  As  I  passed  through  it  in  my  triumphal  progress  a 
horrid  hag  crossed  the  street  in  front  of  me  and  made  a  threat- 
ening gesture,  as  if  prophesying  bad  luck  to  me.  I  stopped 


2g6  'Duel  and  ^Marriage. 

short  before  the  creature  and  fell  back  a  step,  and  my  wreath 
my  beautiful  wreath,  fell  into  the  dust  of  the  street.     Ah  me 
From  that  hour  a  fatal  odor  has  clung  to  my  laurels,  an  odor 
that   I   cannot   banish  !     What  a   pity  for   my  lovely,  lovely 
wreath  ! 

[E.]  [TO  HIS  MOTHER.] 

MARCH  8,  1842. 

.  .  .  My  wife  behaves  well,  thank  God.  She  is  a  thoroughly 
good,  honest  creature,  with  nothing  false  or  malicious  in  her. 
Unfortunately  she  is  impetuous  and  not  even-tempered,  and 
irritates  me  oftener  than  is  good  for  me.  But  I  am  attached 
to  her  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  and  she  is  still  the  com- 
fort of  my  life.  This  will  pass  away  with  time,  as  all  human 
feelings  do  ;  and  I  look  forward  to  the  time  with  dread.  I 
shall  then  feel  the  burden  of  her  humors,  without  the  sympathy 
that  now  makes  them  light.  I  am  sometimes  anxious  at  my 
wife's  helplessness  and  want  of  judgment ;  for  she  is  as  igno- 
rant and  helpless  as  a  three-year-old  child.  You  see,  dearest 
mother,  that  my  worries  are  mostly  mere  hypochondriacal 
fancies. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
"2ltta  Croll." 

PARIS,  May  17,  1842. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 

It  is  hard  to  express  the  deep  emotion  excited  in  Paris  by  the 
misfortune  that  has  befallen  you,*  and  what  true  sympathy  was 
shown  by  the  French.  As  for  me,  being  more  nearly  con- 
nected with  the  place,  and  knowing  that  those  I  love  were  in 
distress,  you  can  imagine  in  what  a  state  I  was  when  I  had  no 
news  of  my  people,  and  could  not  foresee  the  end  of  the  catas- 
trophe. It  threw  me  into  a  state  of  agitation  which  I  cannot 
yet  master,  and  my  head  is  confused  and  disturbed. 

What  a  terrible  event !  I  hope  to  have  direct  news  from  you 
soon.  Indirectly  I  learn  that  by  your  prudent  foresight  you 
escaped  heavy  material  loss;  and  it  will  give  me  the  greatest 
satisfaction  to  have  this  confirmed. 

It  is  a  dreadful  occurrence,  and  the  loss  is  enormous.  I  can 
understand  that  money  cannot  repair  it  all.  But  the  very  mis- 
fortune may  prove  a  blessing,  by  awakening  new  activity,  rous- 
ing new  strength,  and  giving  you  a  moral  regeneration.  This 
irritant,  fiery  treatment  may  have  been  ordered  by  Providence 
as  a  remedy  for  the  torpor  of  peace. 

Here,  too,  we  have  had  some  bitter  draughts  to  swallow  ; 
the  disaster  on  the  Versailles  Railroad  is  dreadful,  dreadful 
beyond  all  imagination. 

SEPTEMBER  17,  1842. 

Here  I  am  again,  after  four  weeks'  absence  ;  and  I  confess 
that  my  heart  bounded  in  my  bosom  when  the  post  chaise  rolled 
onto  the  dear  pavement  of  the  boulevards;  when  I  passed  by 
the  first  milliner's  shop,  with  its  smiling  griscttes ;  when  I 
heard  the  tinkle  of  the  cocoa  seller's  bell ;  when  the  sweet  air  of 
Paris  once  more  breathed  upon  me.  I  \vas  almost  happy,  and 
could  have  embraced  the  first  National  Guard  that  I  met ;  his 
mild,  good-humored  face  looked  out  so  drolly  from  under  the 

*  Hamburg  had  experienced  a  destructive  fire. 


298  "cAtta  Troll." 


fierce,  rough  bearskin,  and  his  bayonet  had  a  look  of  intelli- 
gence reassuringly  different  from  the  bayonets  of  other  corpora- 
tions. But  why  was  my  joy  at  getting  back  to  Paris  this  time 
so  overpowering  that  I  almost  seemed  to  be  walking  on  my 
native  soil  and  hearing  again  the  sounds  of  my  native  land  ? 
Why  does  Paris  cast  such  a  spell  over  the  foreigner  who  dwells 
some  years  in  its  precincts  ?  Many  of  my  good  countrymen 
who  live  here  declare  that  a  German  cannot  feel  more  at  home 
in  any  spot  on  earth,  and  that  to  our  hearts  France  is  nothing 
but  a  French  Germany. 

But  my  joy  at  returning  is  doubly  great  on  this  occasion — 
I  have  come  from  England.  Yes,  from  England,  though  I  did 
not  cross  the  Channel.  In  fact,  I  have  been  four  weeks  in 
Boulogne-  sur-Mer,  and  that  is  already  English  ground.  You 
see  nothing  but  Englishmen,  and  hear  nothing  but  English 
from  morning  till  night ;  and  even  in  the  night,  if  you  are 
unlucky  enough  to  have  neighbors  through  the  wall  who  talk 
politics  over  their  tea  and  grog  late  into  the  night.  For  four 
weeks  I  heard  nothing  but  the  hissing  egotism  that  betrays 
itself  in  every  syllable  and  every  intonation.  Of  course  it  is 
terribly  unjust  to  condemn  a  whole  people.  But  my  ill  humor 
of  the  moment  tempts  me  to  do  so  in  the  case  of  Englishmen  ; 
and  in  looking  at  them  in  the  mass  I  forget  the  many  brave 
and  noble  men  distinguished  by  their  talent  and  love  of  liberty. 
These,  however — that  is,  the  British  poets — shine  all  the  brighter 
among  the  rest  of  the  people  ;  they  are  isolated  martyrs  of  the 
national  surroundings ;  and  born  genius  does  not  belong  to  its 
particular  birthplace — hardly  belongs  to  this  earth,  the  Calvary 
of  its  woes.  The  masses,  the  stock  Englishmen,  are — God  for- 
give me  the  sin  ! — antipathetic  to  my  inmost  soul ;  and  I  often 
looked  at  them,  not  as  my  fellow-men,  but  as  wretched  autom- 
atons— as  machines  whose  internal  spring  is  egotism. 

I  confess  lam  not  quite  impartial  when  I  speak  of  Englishmen ; 
and  my  false  judgment  and  aversion  spring  from  my  anxiety 
for  the  prosperity  and  peaceful  tranquillity  of  the  German 
fatherland.  In  short,  since  I  have  thoroughly  understood  what 
base  egotism  rules,  even  in  their  politics,  these  Englishmen 
inspire  me  with  an  unbounded,  horrible  fear. 


PARIS,  November  7,  1842. 
To  Heinrich  Laube  : 
Your  letter  gives  me  much  pleasure.     That   you  have  taken 


The  "  Elegante  Welt. ' '  299 

the  Elegante  Welt  again  is  certainly  good  news  for  us ;  I 
say  "us";  and  by  it  I  mean  the  higher  classes  in  literature, 
the  last  heads  of  any  distinction  that  have  not  been  guillotined. 
But  will  the  mob  that  rules  draw  still  more  closer  together 
and  abuse  us  ?  I  can  view  things  better  from  a  distance  ;  and 
so  far  as  I  am  concerned  I  see  a  worse  fate  for  me  than 
oblivion  if  I  join  you  in  opposing  wordy  patriotism  and  the 
prevailing  taste.  Gutzkow  and  company's  cowardly  lies  suc- 
ceeded in  casting  suspicion  on  my  political  belief;  and  I,  who 
am  perhaps  the  most  determined  of  the  revolutionary  party — 
I,  who  never  deviated  a  finger's  breadth  from  the  direct  path 
onward — I,  who  have  made  all  possible  sacrifices  to  the  great 
object — I  now  pass  for  an  apostate  and  a  slave  !  What  will  it 
be  if  I  come  forward  in  direct  opposition  to  the  false  heroes, 
spouting  patriots,  and  such  like  saviors  of  the  country  ?  But 
I  only  want  to  show  you  that  I  foresee  how  entirely  my  popu- 
larity will  disappear  in  the  great  retreat ! 

My  dear  friend,  we  must  not  play  the  doctrinaire  ;  we  must 
act  in  harmony  with  the  Halle  Annual  Register  and  the 
Rhenish  Gazette,  must  not  conceal  our  political  sympathies 
and  social  antipathies  ;  we  must  call  bad  things  by  their  names, 
and  defend  the  good  without  any  worldly  considerations; 
we  must  really  be  what  Gutzkow  tries  to  appear — otherwise  it 
will  go  worse  with  us — and  will  go  badly  with  us  at  any  rate. 

As  I  say,  I  will  help  the  Welt  as  much  as  I  can  ;  and 
hope  to  do  more  than  I  promise  to-day.  As  it  chances,  I  can 
do  something  extraordinary  to  give  the  numbers  of  the  first 
month  a  great  lift.  For  I  have  written  a  little  humorous  epic 
that  will  make  a  great  noise.  There  are  some  four  hundred 
four-line  verses,  in  twenty  parts — as  I  was  thinking  of  the 
Morgenblatt,  for  which  I  intended  it.  Unhappily — and  it 
greatly  vexes  me — I  have  already  spoken  to  Cotta  about  it,  and 
promised  it  him  ;  and  he  sent  me  a  very  friendly  answer. 
Nevertheless,  I  am  decided  to  print  it  in  the  Welt,  and  you 
have  no  idea  what  important  interests  I  sacrifice  in  doing  so. 
Important  in  a  pecuniary  sense,  as  I  should  keep  Cotta  well 
disposed  toward  me — I  care  nothing  about  reputation  to  be 
gained  by  the  Morgenblatt.  I  have  been  busy  for  a  fortnight 
polishing  the  poem,  and  in  a  week  it  will  be  done,  ready,  and 
copied  with  my  own  hand.  I  will  go  on  steadily  with  the  job. 
But  as  it  is  a  long  work,  and  I  have  counted  on  it  in  this  year's 
budget,  you  must  take  care  that  the  publisher  of  the  Welt  gives 
me  at  least  as  much  for  it  as  I  should  have  from  Cotta  for  the 


300  "  tAtta  'Troll" 


Morgenblatt.  I  had  distinctly  made  my  bargain.  It  is  ten  louis 
the  printed  page.  I  think  it  will  certainly  be  worth  the  money, 
as  the  work  will  run  through  twenty  numbers  of  the  Welt,  and 
be  a  magnificent  advertisement  for  it.  Between  ourselves,  it  is 
the  most  important  thing  I  have  written  in  verse,  plenty  of 
references  to  topics  of  the  times,  lively  humor,  but  kept  down 
to  the  Morgenblatt  standard,  and  it  will  certainly  be  an  event 
for  the  public.  I  am  uncommonly  anxious  to  see  what  you  will 
say  of  it.  You  see  I  have  meant  to  give  something  new,  and 
drown  the  past  in  an  entirely  new  cry.  The  hero  of  my  little 
epic  is  a  bear,  the  only  contemporary  hero  I  find  worth  singing. 
It  is  a  mad  summer-night's  dream. 


A  dream  of  summer  night  !     Fantastic 
Is  my  song,  and  void  of  purpose 
As  is  living,  as  is  loving, 
Serving  no  need  of  the  epoch. 

Seek  not  in  it  the  discussion 
Of  our  country's  highest  interests  ; 
These  we  shall  be  glad  to  further — 
Only  in  good  prose,  however. 

Yes,  in  good  prose  we  will  gladly 
Break  the  servile  yoke  in  pieces — 
In  our  songs  and  in  our  verses 
Perfect  freedom  long  has  blossomed. 

Here,  in  poesy's  dominion, 
Here  there  is  no  need  of  conflicts  ; 
Here  we  wave  on  high  the  thyrsus, 
And  our  heads  are  crowned  with  roses. 


A  dream  of  summer  night  !     Fantastic 
Is  my  song.     As  void  of  purpose 
As  is  loving,  as  is  living, 
As  creation  and  creator  ! 


On  ' '  */ltta  Troll.  "  301 


Only  his  own  will  obeying, 
Galloping  along  or  flying, 
Prances  through  the  realms  of  fable 
My  beloved  Pegasus. 

He's  no  virtuous  and  useful 

Beast  to  drag  a  city  wagon, 

Nor  the  war  horse  of  one  party, 

That  stamps  and  whinnies  in  his  bathos. 

All  the  hoofs  with  gold  are  shining 
Of  my  white  and  winged  pony  ; 
And  the  reins  are  pearl-embroidered 
That  I  loose  in  merry  humor. 

Bear  me  on,  where'er  thou  choosest  ! 
O'er  the  steep  and  merry  mountains, 
Where  the  torrents,  fearful  roaring, 
Warn  us  of  the  mad  abysses. 

Bear  me  on  through  silent  valleys, 
Where  the  oak  trees  grandly  tower, 
And  beneath  their  roots  so  knotted 
Gush  the  springs  of  sweetest  legends. 

Let  me  drink,  and  in  their  waters 
Bathe  my  eyelids.     Ah,  I  hunger 
For  the  leaping  wonder-water 
That  shall  give  us  sight  and  knowledge  ! 

Blindness  clears  away  !     My  glances 
Pierce  down  to  the  deepest  chasms, 
Into  Atta  Troll's  dark  cavern — 
I  can  understand  his  language  ! 

It  is  wondrous  !     How  familiar 
To  my  ear  is  this  bear-language  ! 
Did  I  not  in  my  dear  country, 
In  my  youth  hear  this  same  roaring  ? 


302  "  e/Jtta  Troll. ' ' 

"  Atta  Troll  "  appeared  late  in  the  autumn  of  1841,  and  was 
printed  in  a  fragmentary  form  in  the  Elegante  Welt,  of  which 
my  friend  Laube  had  again  assumed  the  direction.  The  con- 
tents and  style  had  to  be  adapted  to  that  tame  periodical ;  at 
first  I  wrote  only  the  chapters  that  could  be  printed,  and  even 
those  suffered  many  changes.  I  cherished  the  design  of  pub- 
lishing the  whole  later,  in  a  complete  form,  but  this  remained 
only  a  praiseworthy  intention  ;  and  it  was  the  same  with  "  Atta 
Troll,"  as  with  all  great  works  of  the  Germans,  the  Cologne 
cathedral,  Schelling's  god,  the  Prussian  constitution,  etc. — it 
was  never  finished. 

"  Atta  Troll "  appeared,  as  I  say,  in  the  autumn  of  1841,  at 
a  time  when  the  great  riot  in  which  enemies  of  various  parties 
had  joined  against  me  had  not  entirely  subsided.  It  was 
indeed  a  great  riot;  and  I  should  never  have  thought  that  Ger- 
many could  produce  so  many  rotten  apples  as  were  then  flung  at 
my  head  !  Our  fatherland  is  a  favored  country  ;  to  be  sure,  no 
lemons  or  golden  oranges  grow  there,  and  the  laurel  finds  it 
hard  to  creep  on  German  soil,  but  rotten  apples  thrive  in  ter- 
rible abundance,  and  all  our  poets  could  sing  a  song  of  them. 
In  that  riot,  in  which  I  was  to  lose  crown  and  head,  I  lost 
neither  ;  and  the  absurd  accusations,  with  which  the  common 
people  were  inflamed  against  me,  have  faded  away  in  a  most 
miserable  fashion  without  my  having  to  stoop  to  answer  them. 
Time  undertook  my  justification  ;  and  the  various  German 
governments,  as  I  must  thankfully  acknowledge,  have  deserved 
well  of  me  in  this  respect.  The  warrants,  that  longingly 
awaited  the  German  poet  at  every  station  on  my  road  home 
from  the  frontier,  were  duly  renewed  each  year  about  holy 
Christmastide,  when  the  little  lamps  shine  on  the  Christmas 
trees.  This  danger  of  the  road  made  a  journey  on  German 
ground  little  to  my  taste  ;  so  I  kept  my  Christmases  in  a  for- 
eign land  ;  and  in  a  foreign  land,  in  exile,  I  shall  end  my  days. 
Meanwhile  the  bold  champions  of  light  and  truth,  who  accused 
me  of  inconstancy  and  servility,  go  about  safely  in  the  father- 
land,well-appointed  servants  of  the  state,  of  corporation  digni- 
taries, or  haunting  clubs,  where  they  nourish  their  patriotism 
at  night  with  the  juice  of  Father  Rhine's  grapes  and  sea-washed 
oysters  from  Schleswig-Holstein. 

I  have  staled  exactly  when  "  Atta  Troll  "  came  out.  What 
was  called  the  political  art  of  poetry  was  in  full  bloom.  The 
opposition,  as  Ruge  says,  sold  off  its  leather  and  became  poetry. 
The  Muses  received  strict  orders  not  to  run  about  idlv  and 


Jealous  Impotence,  303 

frivolously  in  future,  but  to  take  service  under  the  state  as  a 
sort  of  female  sutlers  or  laundresses  of  the  Christian  German 
nationality.  A  strange,  vague,  barren  pathos  arose  in  the 
poetic  groves  of  Germany — the  fruitless  spirit  of  enthusiasm 
that  flung  itself  headlong  into  a  sea  of  commonplaces,  always 
reminding  me  of  the  American  sailor  who  was  so  utterly  fas- 
cinated by  General  Jackson  that  he  sprang  from  the  masthead 
into  the  sea,  crying,  "  I  die  for  General  Jackson  !  "  So  we 
Germans,  though  we  had  no  navy,  had  plenty  of  sailors  who 
died  for  General  Jackson  in  prose  and  verse.  Talent  was 
then  a  doubtful  gift,  as  it  brought  a  suspicion  of  want  of  char- 
acter. Jealous  impotence,  after  searching  for  a  thousand 
years,  had  found  its  great  weapon  against  the  insolence  of 
genius  ;  it  had  discovered  the  antithesis  of  character  and  genius. 
The  masses  felt  almost  personally  flattered  to  hear  it  said  that 
honest  people  are,  as  a  rule,  poor  musicians,  while  good 
musicians  are  generally  anything  but  honest  people  ;  but  that 
honesty  was  the  great  thing  in  the  world,  and  not  music.  The 
empty  head  now  slapped  its  full  heart  with  conviction,  and 
character  was  trumps.  I  remember  one  writer  of  the  time 
who  considered  it  a  great  merit  that  he  could  not  write,  and 
he  was  presented  with  a  silver  goblet  for  his  wooden  style. 

By  the  eternal  gods  !  It  was  time  then  to  defend  the  inalien- 
able rights  of  mind,  especially  in  poetry.  As  this  defense  was 
the  great  object  of  my  life  I  was  far  from  neglecting  it  in  this 
poem  ;  and  matter  and  style  were  a  protest  against  the  ple- 
beian opinions  of  the  tribunes  of  the  day.  And,  sure  enough, 
the  first  fragment  that  was  printed  of  "  Atta  Troll  "  roused 
the  gall  of  my  champions  of  character,  my  Romans,  who 
charged  me  with  "  reaction,"  not  only  literary,  but  social,  and 
with  despising  the  most  sacred  ideas  of  man.  As  for  the 
aesthetic  value  of  my  poem,  I  gave  it  up  then,  and  do  so  to-day. 
I  wrote  it  for  my  own  pleasure  and  amusement,  in  the  sportive, 
dreamy  style  of  the  romantic  school  in  which  I  passed  the 
sweetest  days  of  my  youth,  and  ended  by  cudgeling  the  school- 
master. In  this  respect  my  poem  may  be  objectionable.  But 
thou  liest,  Brutus,  thou  liest,  Cassius,  and  thou  too  liest, 
Asinius,  when  you  say  my  raillery  extends  to  those  ideas  which 
men  have  won  at  great  cost,  for  which  I  have  so  striven  and 
suffered.  But  even  while  these  ideas  come  sweeping  by  the 
poet  in  all  their  noble  brilliancy  and  grandeur,  he  is  seized 
with  an  all  the  more  irresistible  desire  to  laugh  when  he  sees 
in  what  a  raw,  coarse,  clumsy  shape  these  ideas  are  adopted 


304  " vAtta  Troll." 


by  his  narrow  contemporaries.  He  laughs  at  their  bear's  hide, 
so  characteristic  of  the  day.  Some  mirrors  are  ground  so  awry 
that  Apollo  himself  would  look  like  a  caricature  in  them,  and 
make  us  laugh.  But  we  laugh  at  the  caricature  and  not  at  the 
god. 

One  more  word.  Is  it  necessary  to  protest  that  the  imitation 
of  Freiligrath's  poetry,  which  peeps  saucily  out  here  and  there 
in  "  Atta  Troll,"  and  forms  a  sort  of  comic  understratum  in  it, 
is  not  meant  to  undervalue  the  poet  ?  I  still  prize  him,  more 
now  than  ever,  and  count  him  among  the  most  remarkable 
poets  who  have  appeared  in  Germany  since  the  Revolution  of 
July, 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
travels  in  bis  "native  Xanfc. 

PARIS,  December  31,  1842. 

I  WRITE  these  lines  in  the  last  hours  of  the  bad  departing 
year.  The  new  one  stands  at  the  door.  May  it  be  less  cruel 
than  its  predecessor  !  I  send  my  sad  good  wishes  for  the  new 
year  across  the  Rhine.  I  wish  the  stupid  a  little  sense,  and 
the  clever  a  little  poetry.  I  wish  the  women  fine  clothes,  and 
the  men  plenty  of  patience.  I  wish  the  rich  some  heart,  and 
the  poor  a  morsel  of  bread.  Above  all,  I  wish  that  in  this 
new  year  we  may  abuse  one  another  as  little  as  possible. 

PARIS,  April  12,  1843. 
To  Maximilian  Heine : 

If  I  do  not  write  to  you  the  reason  is  a  simple  one  :  I  have 
so  much  to  say  that  I  do  not  know  where  to  begin  nor  how  to 
end.  But  I  think  of  you  constantly,  and  talk  almost  every  day 
about  you  with  my  wife,  who  was  so  glad  to  see  you  on  one 
occasion  ;  and  in  my  saddest  troubles  I  am  often  encouraged 
by  the  knowledge  that  I  have  a  true  brother,  devoted  to  me 
with  his  whole  soul.  And  I  have  had  no  lack  of  troubles  in 
the  last  year  !  For  the  moment  I  am  living  quietly  enough  ; 
there  is  a  truce  between  me  and  my  enemies,  who  are  none 
the  less  actively  at  work  in  secret,  and  I  must  be  prepared  for 
every  kind  of  outbreak  of  deadly  hatred  and  vile  rascality. 
But  all  this  would  not  matter  much  if  I  had  not  my  worst 
enemy  within,  I  mean  in  my  head,  the  trouble  in  which  has  of 
late  entered  on  a  very  serious  stage.  Almost  the  whole  of  my 
left  side  is  paralyzed,  so  far  as  feeling  goes  ;  the  motion  of  the 
muscles  still  remains.  Over  my  left  eyebrow,  at  the  root  of 
the  nose,  there  is  a  leaden  weight  that  is  never  lifted,  and  the 
pressure  has  been  constant  for  nearly  two  years  !  I  feel  it 
lighter  only  in  moments  of  great  effort  in  my  work,  and  the 
reaction  is  all  the  greater  ;  as  you  may  imagine,  I  cannot 
work  much.  What  a  misfortune  !  Besides,  my  left  eye  is 

3°5 


306  Travels  in  his  Dative  Land. 

very  weak  and  painful,  and  often  does  not  follow  my  right  one, 
which  causes  a  blurring  in  my  sight  far  harder  to  bear  than  the 
darkness  of  total  blindness.  I  have  had  a  seton  in  my  neck 
for  two  months,  but  it  is  only  a  palliative,  and  I  have  no  faith 
in  any  cure.  I  tell  you  this,  not  that  I  expect  any  advice 
from  you,  but  to  gratify  your  medical  curiosity.  I  have  little 
hope  of  improvement,  and  look  for  a  sad  future.  My  wife  is  a 
good,  simple,  cheerful  child,  full  of  humors  as  only  a  French 
woman  can  be,  and  does  not  let  me  fall  into  sad  dreams,  as  T 
am  disposed  to  do.  I  have  loved  her  for  eight  years  with  a 
tenderness  and  passion  that  borders  on  the  fabulous.  In  that 
time  I  have  had  a  deal  of  happiness,  a  dreadful  mixture  of  joy 
and  sorrow,  more  than  my  sensitive  nature  could  bear.  Must 
I  now  drink  the  bitter  dregs  ?  As  I  say,  I  shudder  at  the 
future.  But  who  knows  ?  It  may  be  better  than  my  sad  spirit 
imagines.  Only  continue  fond  of  me,  dearest  brother,  and  I 
will  lean  my  heart  on  your  brotherly  truth  and  love. 

In  Hamburg  everything  appears  to  be  in  floribus.  That 
little  Marie  is  to  make  such  a  good  match  is  a  piece  of  fortune 
for  which  I  thank  God.  What  joy  for  our  sister  and  mother  ! 
Mother  is  much  changed,  but  that  is  the  common  fate  of  man. 
I  hope  she  may  long  remain  with  us — good,  excellent  mother  ! 

I  am  on  good  enough  terms  with  the  family  and  with  Uncle 
Heine,  who  gives  me  eight  thousand  francs  a  year — about  half 
of  what  I  require.  I  am  glad,  now  that  I  am  ill  in  body  and 
cannot  count  on  my  work,  to  have  a  certain  income. 


HAMBURG,  September  17,  1844. 

I  wrote  the  poem  "  Germany — A  Winter's  Tale"  in  January 
of  this  year,  at  Paris  ;  and  in  some  of  the  verses  the  free  air  of 
the  place  blew  more  keenly  than  I  should  have  wished.  I  did 
not  fail  to  tone  down  and  strike  out  whatever  seemed  not  to 
agree  with  the  German  climate.  Nevertheless,  when  in  the 
month  of  May  I  sent  my  manuscript  to  my  publisher  in  Ham- 
burg, many  points  were  suggested  for  my  consideration.  I 
had  to  undertake  the  horrid  work  of  remodeling  once  more, 
and  the  serious  tone  of  the  poem  may  have  been  unnecessarily 
stifled  or  drowned  in  the  jingle  of  humor's  bells.  In  my  hasty 
vexation  I  may  have  stripped  off  the  fig  leaf  from  a  few  naked 
thoughts,  and  so  offended  coy,  prudish  ears.  I  regret  it,  but 
console  myself  with  the  knowledge  that  greater  authors  have 


Winter's  Tale."  307 


been  guilty  of  the  same  fault.  I  will  not  cite  Aristophanes  in 
palliation,  for  he  was  a  blind  heathen,  and  his  Athenian  audi- 
ence had  received  a  classical  education,  but  had  rather  faint 
notions  of  propriety.  I  could  better  appeal  to  Cervantes  and 
Moliere,  the  first  of  whom  wrote  for  the  aristocracy  of  both 
the  Castiles,  and  the  second  for  the  great  king  and  great  court 
of  Versailles.  Ah  !  I  am  forgetting  that  we  live  in  very 
bourgeois  times  ;  and  I  foresee  with  sorrow  that  many  daughters 
of  high  rank  on  the  Spree,  if  not  on  the  Alster,  will  turn  up 
their  more  or  less  hooked  noses  at  my  poor  poem  !  But  what 
I  anticipate  with  still  greater  sorrow  is  the  shriek  of  those 
Pharisees  the  Nationalists,  who  adopt  all  the  antipathies  of 
their  governments,  enjoy  the  love  and  respect  of  the  censor- 
ship, and  can  upon  occasion  give  the  word  to  the  daily  press 
to  attack  any  adversary  who  opposes  their  most  high  authority. 
Our  hearts  are  armed  against  the  wrath  of  these  noble-minded 
lackeys  in  black,  red,  and  gold  livery.  I  can  hear  now  their 
beery  tones  :  "  You  blaspheme  even  our  colors,  you  traitor  to 
your  country  and  friend  of  the  French,  to  whom  you  would 
give  up  our  free  Rhine  !  "  Keep  cool.  I  will  respect  and 
honor  your  colors  when  they  deserve  it,  and  are  no  longer  an 
idle  and  knavish  show.  Plant  the  black,  red,  and  gold  banner 
in  the  front  rank  of  German  thought,  make  it  the  standard  of 
free  manhood,  and  I  will  shed  my  heart's  best  blood  for  it. 
Keep  cool.  I  love  the  fatherland  as  well  as  you  do.  For  love 
of  it  I  have  lived  in  exile  thirteen  years,  and  for  love  of  it  I 
am  going  back  into  exile,  perhaps  forever  and  without  snivel- 
ing or  making  wry  faces.  I  am  the  friend  of  the  French 
because  I  am  the  friend  of  all  good  and  reasonable  men,  and 
because  1  am  not  so  stupid  or  wicked  as  to  wish  to  see  my 
Germans  and  the  French,  the  two  chosen  peoples  of  humanity, 
fly  at  each  other's  throats  for  the  benefit  of  England  and 
Russia,  and  to  the  delight  of  every  lordling  and  priest  on 
earth.  Be  easy  ;  I  will  never  give  up  the  Rhine  to  the  French, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  it  belongs  to  me.  Yes,  it  belongs 
to  me  by  inalienable  birthright  ;  I  am  a  free  son  of  the  free 
Rhine,  on  whose  bank  my  cradle  stands  ;  and  I  see  no  reason 
why  the  Rhine  should  belong  to  any  but  the  children  of  the 
land.  True,  I  cannot  so  readily  look  upon  Alsace  and  Lor- 
raine as  a  corporeal  part  of  the  German  kingdom,  as  you  do  ; 
for  the  people  of  that  country  cling  to  France  by  the  rights 
they  won  in  the  French  political  revolution,  by  that  equality 
of  laws  and  free  institutions  that  are  so  dear  to  the  souls  of 


308  Travels  in  his  Dative  Land. 

free  burghers,  but  fail  to  fill  the  stomachs  of  the  great  mass  of 
men.  Still,  Alsace  and  Lorraine  will  join  themselves  again  to 
Germany  if  we  finish  what  the  French  have  begun,  if  we  sur- 
pass them  in  deeds  as  we  already  have  in  thought,  if  we  can 
raise  ourselves  to  the  ultimate  logical  conclusion,  if  we  destroy 
slavery  in  its  last  lurking  place — heaven,  if  we  rescue  the  God 
who  on  earth  dwells  in  man  from  his  abasement,  if  we  restore 
the  poor,  oppressed  people,  and  despised  genius,  and  dishon- 
ored beauty  to  the  place  they  deserve,  as  our  great  master 
said  and  sang,  and  as  we  are  resolved  to  do — we,  the  disciples. 
Yes  ;  not  Alsace  and  Lorraine  only,  but  all  France  will  join  us, 
all  Europe,  the  whole  world — the  whole  world  will  become 
German  !  Often,  as  I  wander  under  the  oak  trees,  do  I  dream 
of  this  mission,  this  universal  dominion  of  Germany.  This  is 
my  patriotism.  .  . 

BREMEN,  October  28,  1843. 
To  Mathilde  Heine  : 

Dear  love :  I  have  just  got  here  after  traveling  two  days 
and  two  nights.  It  is  eight  in  the  morning,  and  I  shall  go  on 
farther  to-day,  so  as  to  be  in  Hamburg  to-morrow.  Yes,  to- 
morrow I  shall  reach  the  end  of  my  pilgrimage,  which  has  been 
very  tedious  and  fatiguing.  I  am  quite  exhausted.  I  have 
had  great  discomfort  and  foul  weather.  Everyone  here  wears 
a  traveling  cloak  ;  and  I  had  but  a  poor  coat  that  hardly  came 
to  my  knees,  which  are  stiff  with  cold.  And  withal  my  heart 
is  full  of  care  ;  I  have  left  my  poor  lamb  in  Paris,  where  there 
are  so  many  wolves.  I  am  a  poor  sort  of  a  cock.  I  have 
already  spent  more  than  a  hundred  thalers.  Adieu  ;  I  embrace 
you.  I  am  writing  in  a  room  full  of  people.  The  noise  about 
me  gives  me  a  terrible  headache.  A  thousand  greetings  to 
Mme.  Darte  and  our  excellent,  fantastic  Aurecia. 

HAMBURG,  October  31,  1843. 

Dearest  love :  I  have  been  in  Hamburg  for  two  days,  where 
I  found  all  my  relations  in  good  health,  except  my  uncle. 
Although  he  has  temporarily  improved,  his  condition  is  alarm- 
ing, and  we  fear  we  may  lose  him  in  the  next  attack  of  his  ill- 
ness. He  received  me  with  great  heartiness,  and  even  with 
cordiality ;  and  as  he  sees  that  I  did  not  come  to  Hamburg  to 
ask  for  money,  but  solely  to  see  him  and  my  mother,  I  stand 
high  in  his  favor.  He  asked  me  particularly  about  you,  and 


Letters  to  ZMathilde.  309 


always  speaks  most  respectfully  of  you.  I  am  pleased  to  see 
that  people  in  general  speak  well  of  you  here  in  Hamburg, 
where  they  are  more  slanderous  than  anywhere  ;  it  is  a  nest  of 
gossip  and  slander. 

As  for  my  mother,  I  found  her  much  changed  ;  she  is  very 
weak  and  debilitated.  She  has  shrunken  through  age  and 
care.  Every  little  trifle  excites  her  painfully.  Her  worst 
complaint  is  pride.  She  goes  nowhere,  as  she  cannot  afford  to 
receive  at  home.  Since  the  fire  she  has  lived  in  two  small 
rooms  ;  it  is  pitiful !  She  lost  heavily  by  the  fire,  as  she  was 
insured  in  a  company  that  cannot  pay. 

Karl  Heine  is  always  laughing  about  my  jealousy,  and  won- 
dering I  could  leave  you  in  Paris  !  You  are  my  poor  dear 
wife,  and  I  hope  you  are  good  and  prudent.  I  beg  you  not  to 
show  yourself  much  in  public,  and  not  to  go  to  the  hospital.  I 
hope  you  will  not  receive  the  biggest  of  blockheads  at  your 
house ;  believe  me,  you  have  friends,  and  former  friends  of 
your  own  sex,  who  ask  nothing  better  than  to  compromise  you 
in  my  eyes. 

HAMBURG,  November  2. 

I  hope  you  are  doing  well ;  I  am.  Only  my  abominable 
head  suffers  from  the  nervous  trouble  you  know  of.  I  dined 
yesterday  with  my  uncle,  who  was  in  a  very  bad  humor  ;  the 
poor  man  suffers  terrible  pain.  But  I  contrived  to  make  him 
laugh.  I  am  always  thinking  of  you,  dear  Nonotte.  It  was  a 
bold  resolution  to  leave  you  alone  in  Paris,  that  terrible  abyss  ! 
Do  not  forget  that  my  eye  is  always  on  you  ;  I  know  all  you 
do,  and  what  I  do  not  know  now  I  shall  find  out  later. 

I  cannot  yet  fix  the  day  of  my  departure  ;  my  stay  in  Ham- 
burg will  probably  last  till  the  middle  of  the  month.  Believe 
me,  the  time  will  not  be  lost.  My  business  with  my  bookseller 
is  complicated,  and  gives  me  a  deal  to  do  here. 


NOVEMBER  5. 

Everybody  here  makes  much  of  me.  My  mother  is  happy, 
my  sister  beside  herself  with  delight  ;  and  my  uncle  discovers 
all  earthly  good  qualities  in  me.  And  I  am  very  amiable. 
What  hard  work  to  have  to  please  uninteresting  people  !  When 
I  get  back  I  shall  be  as  cross  as  possible,  to  make  up  for  my 
efforts  at  amiability. 

I  think  of  you  constantly,  and  cannot  feel  easy.     Vague,  sad 


310  Travels  in  his  Dative  Land. 

thoughts  torment  me  day  and  night.     You  are  all  the  joy  of 
my  life — do  not  make  me  unhappy  ! 

All  my  relations  scold  me  for  not  bringing  you  to  Hamburg 
with  me.  But  I  was  right  to  study  the  ground  a  little  first, 
before  coming  with  you.  We  shall  probably  spend  the  spring 
and  summer  here.  I  hope  you  will  be  well  repaid  for  your 
present  dull  life.  I  will  do  my  best  to  make  it  up  to  you. 
Good-by,  my  angel,  my  darling,  my  poor  child,  my  good 
wife ! 

NOVEMBER  19. 

I  hope  you  are  well.  As  for  me,  my  horrid  head  still  plays 
me  tricks,  and  prevents  my  finishing  my  business  in  Hamburg 
promptly.  I  am  ill  and  impatient,  for  I  am  always  thinking  of 
you  ;  I  am  almost  crazy  when  my  thoughts  take  the  direction 
of  Chaillot.  What  is  my  wife  doing  now,  that  craziest  of  crazy 
women  !  I  was  crazy  not  to  bring  you  here  with  me.  For 
God's  sake,  do  not  do  anything  at  which  I  shall  be  vexed  when 
I  return.  Keep  as  quiet  as  you  can  in  your  nest ;  work,  study, 
be  thoroughly  bored,  spin  wool,  like  the  chaste  Lucretia  whom 
you  saw  at  the  Ode"on. 

NOVEMBER  25. 

No  news  from  you  for  such  a  long  time  !  My  God  !  I  assure 
you  it  is  terrible.  But  I  must  stay  here  till  the  end  of  next 
week  (to-day  is  Saturday).  I  shall  come  straight  back  to 
Paris  without  stopping  anywhere  ;  so  I  shall  see  you  in  a  fort- 
night, my  treasure.  In  the  meantime  be  easy,  be  reasonable, 
and  keep  busy.  I  have  well  employed  my  time  here.  Affairs 
with  my  publisher  are  all  settled.  Everything  is  arranged  for 
the  future  also.  I  give  him  the  right  to  publish  my  works  for- 
ever, instead  of  for  the  term  which  would  have  run  out  in  four 
years.  On  his  side  he  pays  me  for  life  an  annuity  of  twelve  hun- 
dred marks  (about  twenty-four  hundred  francs).  If  I  die  before 
you,  the  annuity  survives  to  you,  and  the  publisher  will  pay  you 
the  same  sum  every  year.  This  annuity  begins  with  the  year 
1848  (in  four  years),  but  if  I  die  within  these  four  years  my  pub- 
lisher agrees  to  pay  you  from  that  moment  twenty-four  hundred 
francs  a  year  ;  so  you  are  sure  of  this  sum  for  your  life  from  now. 
This  is  the  basis  of  our  contract.  It  is  a  great  secret  which 
I  tell  no  one ;  but  as  you  want  to  hear  the  details,  I  could 
not  help  telling  you  of  this  new  arrangement,  which  in  four 
years  will  give  me  two  hundred  francs  a  month  more  for  us  to 


Letters  to  ZMatbilde.  311 

live  on.  It  is  also  one  step  toward  fixing  your  income  after  my 
death — which,  however,  is  not  coming  very  soon,  for  I  am  feel- 
ing very  well.  It  is  every  man's  duty  to  consider  his  wife's 
position  in  the  event  of  his  death,  and  not  leave  her  exposed 
to  any  disputes.  This  is  no  merit,  but  a  duty. 

My  uncle  is  better.  All  my  family  are  well.  I  constantly 
speak  of  you  to  my  nieces,  who  are  burning  with  curiosity  to 
see  their  aunt  Mathilda. 

DECEMBER  6. 

I  start  to-morrow.  I  could  not  start  sooner  on  account  of 
business  and  the  grippe,  from  which  I  am  still  suffering. 
Yesterday  my  publisher  signed  the  agreement  I  wrote  you 
about ;  you  have  no  idea  of  the  vexations  I  have  had  over 
this  contract.  It  is  magnificent !  I  am  enchanted  with  it. 


BUCKEBURG,  December  10. 

I  am  sure  you  do  not  know  where  Biickeburg  is,  though  it 
is  a  celebrated  town  in  our  family  annals.  No  matter ;  the 
important  thing  is  that  I  am  on  my  way,  am  well,  love  you 
with  all  my  heart,  and  shall  probably  embrace  you  on  Satur- 
day. I  am  anxious  about  you.  How  terrible,  O  God  !  to  be 
so  long  without  news  of  you.  I  am  vexed  with  you  for  it ; 
and  when  I  arrive  I  will  give  you  only  five  hundred  kisses 
instead  of  a  thousand. 


PARIS,  December  29,  1843. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 

I  have  been  for  ten  days  here  in  my  headquarters,  where 
I  found  everything  better  than  I  expected.  The  absence  of 
all  news  from  Paris  made  my  last  ten  days  in  Hamburg  so 
sad  that  I  had  no  head  for  anything.  A  thousand  things 
now  occur  to  me  that  I  ought  to  have  done  there.  I  hardly 
said  good-by  to  my  uncle,  who  would  not  let  me  go.  The 
most  important  things  I  wanted  to  learn,  clean  forgotten.  It 
is  an  unspeakable  satisfaction  to  me  that  everything  was  most 
satisfactorily  arranged  between  us,  and  a  sure  basis  laid  for 
our  working  together  ;  we  have  untangled  those  complications 
that  must  necessarily  arise  in  a  thirteen  years'  separation,  leav- 
ing the  present  serene,  and  allowing  us  to  count  on  a  fair 
future.  I  send  you  beforehand  good  luck  and  blessings  for 


312  Travels  in  his  Dative  Land. 

the  new  year  !  You  cannot  think  how  unwillingly  I  left  Ham- 
burg this  time  !  An  incurable  fondness  for  Germany  rages  in 
my  heart. 

FEBRUARY  20,  1844. 

I  got  your  letter  a  week  ago,  and  am  not  yet  in  a  condition 
to  answer  it  properly.  For  ten  days  my  horrible  trouble  in 
the  eyes  has  come  back  more  horrible  than  ever,  and  I  write 
you  these  lines  with  the  greatest  difficulty.  I  can  lordly  see 
the  letters.  I  was  in  the  middle  of  a  great  job  when  the 
mischief  came  back.  I  have  done  a  great  deal  since  my  return; 
for  instance,  an  epic  voyage,  highly  humoristic,  my  trip  to 
Germany,  a  group  of  twenty  poems,  all  finished,  thank  God  ; 
I  will  write  a  prose  portion,  and  send  you  the  parts  very  soon 
accordingly.  You  will  be  pleased  with  me,  and  the  public 
will  see  me  in  my  true  shape.  My  poems,  the  new  ones,  are 
in  an  entirely  new  style,  versified  pictures  of  travel,  and 
breathe  a  loftier  political  spirit  than  the  common  political 
doggerel.  But  be  prepared  with  some  scheme  to  print  a  thin^ 
under  twenty-one  sheets  probably,  without  any  censorship. 


FEBRUARY  17,  1844. 

The  trouble  in  my  eyes  has  been  cured  these  four  weeks. 
Before  that  I  was  almost  blind  ;  could  not  write,  and,  what 
was  even  more  dreadful,  could  not  read.  You  have  no  idea 
of  the  melancholy  that  preyed  upon  me.  Luckily  my  great 
poem  was  almost  finished.  Only  the  conclusion  was  wanting, 
and  I  may  have  done  that  lamely.  I  have  since  been  occupied 
in  copying  the  work,  and  the  clean,  fair  manuscript  lies  before 
me.  I  will  only  look  through  it  once  more  with  a  magnifying 
glass,  and  then  send  it  to  you  by  way  of  Havre.  It  is  a  poem 
in  rhyme,  which,  reckoning  four  verses  to  the  page,  will  make 
over  ten  sheets,  and  describes  the  present  agitations  in  Ger- 
many with  great  freedom  and  personality.  It  is  politico- 
romantic,  and  I  hope  it  may  give  a  deathblow  to  the  didactic 
poetry  of  the  prosy-bombastic  order.  You  know  I  do  not 
boast  ;  but  I  am  sure  this  time  that  I  am  giving  you  a  little 
thing  that  will  make  more  furore  than  the  most  popular  pamph- 
let, and  will  have  the  lasting  value  of  a  classic  poem.  I  at 
first  intended  to  add  ten  or  twelve  sheets  of  prose,  and  speak 
of  the  most  noteworthy  changes  I  have  found  in  Germany. 
But  during  my  blindness  this  material  worked  itself  out  at 


Eyes  Failing.  313 

greater  length  ;  and  I  now  see  that,  if  I  gather  some  material 
I  yet  need  during  a  second  trip  to  Germany,  it  will  turn  out 
one  of  my  most  important  works.  The  portraits  alone  of 
deceased  friends  and  political  acquaintances  would  make  an 
interesting  large  book.  .  . 

MAY  3. 

I  shall  be  here  for  four  weeks  yet,  and  then  for  the  sake  of 
my  eyes  (I  am  again  half  blind)  I  must  go  straight  to  the 
baths.  Leuk  in  Switzerland  is  recommended  by  the  doctors. 
I  absolutely  require  this,  if  I  would  not  become  quite  blind. 
During  the  last  fortnight  I  have  written  four  long  articles  for 
the  A/legemeine  Zeitung,  which,  by  increasing  the  disease  in 
my  eyes,  have  cost  me  more  than  they  brought  in.  This  is 
one  of  the  trials  of  an  author — to  strain  his  eyes  for  the  price 
of  treating  them. 

JULY  n. 

I  might  have  had  an  answer  four  or  five  days  since  to  my 
last  letter,  in  which  I  explained  the  embarrassment  your  silence 
occasions  me.  This  is  incomprehensible,  and  it  disturbs  me 
more  than  I  can  tell  you.  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  Are 
you  ill  ?  Did  you  not  receive  my  letter  ?  Are  you  possessed  ? 
Or  am  I  mad  myself  ?  Here  am  I,  letting  the  fine  season  slip 
by  in  which  I  must  go  to  the  baths  for  my  head,  and  staying 
here  on  the  burning  asphalt  of  Paris  and  in  the  roar  of  car- 
riages, while  I  long  for  green  trees  and  pure  air,  my  nerves  in  a 
fever,  too  impatient  to  hold  a  pen  in  my  hand — and  all  this 
for  want  of  a  line  from  you  !  "If  I  have  to  wait  for  your  letter 
till  the  end  of  next  week  I  apparently  shall  not  get  to  the 
baths  at  all.  Why  the  devil  do  you  leave  a  friend  in  such 
need  ?  You  know  I  have  no  peace  till  I  hear  certainly  of  the 
fate  of  my  manuscript.  I  believe  in  the  end  I  shall  not  be 
able  to  stand  it  and  shall  rush  heels  over  head  to  Hamburg. 
I  walked  back  and  forth  yesterday  for  three  hours  with  Hebbel; 
and  as  he  too  hears  nothing  from  you,  we  racked  our  brains 
in  vain. 


HAMBURG,  August  12,  1844. 
To  Mathilde  Heine : 

I  am  frightened  to  death  about  your  journey  back.     When 
you  get  this  letter  I  hope  you  will  have  recovered  from  the 


314  Travels  in  his  Dative  Land. 

fatigue  of  your  journey.  You  had  good  weather,  no  wind,  and 
the  passage  must  have  been  less  unpleasant  than  the  voyage 
was  in  coming.  All  the  world  here,  especially  my  poor  mother, 
is  troubled  at  your  going  away.  Already  three  days  since  I 
saw  you.  These  days  have  passed  like  shadows  with  me;  I  do 
not  know  what  I  am  doing,  and  do  not  think  at  all.  I  received 
a  letter  from  my  uncle  on  Saturday,  in  which  he  almost  asked 
my  pardon  for  his  growling  ;  he  confesses  apologetically  that 
his  ill  health  and  the  business  with  which  he  is  overwhelmed 
were  the  causes  of  his  bad  humor  on  that  occasion.  I  had  to 
dine  with  him  yesterday,  Sunday,  though  I  was  suffering  from 
my  horrid  headache;  he  was  very  pleasant.  But  to-day  my 
head  is  like  a  baked  apple.  You  know  my  stupid  condition 
the  next  day  when  I  have  exerted  myself  in  spite  of  my  head- 
ache. I  can  hardly  write  ;  I  hope  you  can  read  my  scrawl. 
Write  me  soon  and  at  length  ;  you  need  not  be  afraid  of  me. 
Let  me  know  if  you  arrived  well  and  in  good  spirits,  without 
accident,  without  getting  robbed  ;  if  the  customhouse  bothered 
you,  if  you  are  in  good  quarters,  if  you  are  well,  and  if  I  can 
be  easy  about  you-  Sit  still  in  your  nest  till  I  come  back.  Do 
not  let  the  Germans  find  out  your  hiding  place  ;  they  may  have 
learned  from  the  gossip  of  some  German  papers  that  you  have 
come  back  to  Paris  without  me.  We  know  one  of  them  who 
is  not  very  delicate,  and  would  not  hesitate  to  come  to  the 
pension  ;  do  not  forget  your  prudent  rules  this  time. 


AUGUST  16. 

Someone  is  hammering  near  me.  My  head  is  no  better  ;  I 
am  as  sad  as  a  nightcap  ;  I  am  three  hundred  miles  from  you; 
in  short,  I  am  unhappy.  I  am  impatiently  awaiting  a  letter 
from  you  ;  I  beg  you  to  write  at  least  twice  a  week — as  when 
I  do  not  hear  from  you  I  lose  my  head  ;  and  I  need  that  poor 
head  more  than  ever,  for  the  horizon  is  clouding,  and  my  affairs 
are  getting  entangled.  I  need  two  months  to  straighten  out 
my  affairs  ;  and  if  I  do  not  receive  news  regularly  from  you, 
and  get  wild  as  I  did  last  year,  it  will  cause  untold  loss.  Do 
not  forget  to  write  to  me  particularly  how  things  are  going, 
and  if  you  are  well.  I  need  not  advise  you  to  be  prudent  in 
all  you  do — you  know  what  good  reason  I  have  to  fear  the 
perfidy  of  Germans  and  sometimes  of  Frenchmen. 

My  old  uncle  is  much  worse  ;  I  had  a  great  deal  to  say  to 
him,  but  it  looks  as  if  he  would  have  no  time  to  hear  it  in  this 


Letters  to  ZMatbilde.  315 


world.  O  my  God,  what  a  misfortune  !  He  will  not  last 
through  the  year.  I  am  going  to  see  him  to-day ;  my  heart  is 
heavy  at  the  mere  thought  of  rinding  him  in  the  same  state  he 
was  in  last  week. 

My  mother  is  wonderfully  well,  and  is  always  talking  of  you 
with  her  dame  d'atottr,  her  factotum,  her  female  Sancho  Panza 
— in  short,  with  Jette.  My  sister  and  her  children  are  well, 
and  impatient  for  news  of  their  aunt. 

SEPTEMBER  2. 

I  know  that  you  are  not  fond  of  writing,  that  it  is  a  tedious 
affair  for  you  to  write  a  letter,  that  it  provokes  you  not  to  be 
able  to  let  your  pen  gallop  with  a  free  rein — but  you  know  well 
that  you  need  not  be  afraid  of  me,  and  that  I  understand  your 
thoughts  however  badly  they  may  be  expressed.  I  have  a  great 
deal  to  do  just  now  ;  and  as  I  speak  and  write  nothing  but 
German,  I  too  find  it  hard  to  write  French.  This  will  explain 
to  you  why  I  write  often,  and  not  at  such  length  as  I  should  be 
glad  to  ;  for  I  think  of  you  continually,  and  have  a  thousand 
things  to  say  to  you.  The  most  important  information  I  have 
to  give  to  you  is  that  /  love  you  madly,  my  dear  wife.  I  hope 
you  have  not  forgotten  German. 

SEPTEMBER  n. 

I  hear  nothing  from  you  ;  and  you  were  to  write  me  once  a 
week,  if  only  once.  I  beg  you  earnestly  not  to  leave  me  without 
letters,  but  to  write  fully  and  as  often  as  possible.  Do  not 
forget  I  live  only  for  you,  and  if  you  are  not  happy  at  this 
moment  do  not  worry  ;  the  future  belongs  to  us. 

OCTOBER  4. 

I  was  all  ready  to  start  this  afternoon ;  but  it  is  dreadful  weather 
and  my  mother  made  a  great  outcry.  I  have  consented  to  wait 
a  few  days  and  take  the  next  steamer.  I  have  only  two  minutes 
to  send  this  letter,  as  I  could  not  see  my  uncle  Henry  until  six 
o'clock,  to  get  a  further  draft  for  one  hundred  francs,  which  I 
inclose.  I  send  you  this  money,  though  I  am  not  in  funds, 
and  do  not  believe  that  you  have  yet  run  dry  ;  but  I  am  always 
afraid  of  your  being  embarrassed  for  money.  So  I  beg  you 
not  to  spend  any  of  it,  unless  for  necessaries.  Farewell,  my 
lamb  ! 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
JDtepute  over  tbe  Unberitance. 

PARIS,  December  19,  1844. 
To  Julius  Campe : 

Write  to  me  at  once,  that  I  may  write  to  you  with  an  easy 
mind  about  a  publication  of  instant  importance  ;  that  is,  a 
series  of  letters  on  Germany,  highly  controversial,  which  I  must 
publish.  Write  by  return  post,  and  don't  waste  my  time  with 
useless  explanations.  I  delayed  with  "  Atta  Troll,"  because  I 
wanted  to  add  several  passages,  and  in  the  coming  new  year 
write  those  on  the  scene  of  the  poem,  in  the  Pyrenees.  Epic 
poems  need  frequent  retouching.  How  often  Ariosto  made 
changes,  and  how  often  Tasso  !  The  poet  is  but  a  man,  to 
whom  the  best  thoughts  often  come  last.  The  "  Winter's  Tale  " 
is  unfinished  in  its  present  form  ;  it  needs  important  improve- 
ments, and  the  principal  parts  are  missing.  I  am  very  anxious 
to  write  them  as  soon  as  I  can,  and  get  you  to  prepare  a  revised 
and  greatly  improved  edition.  You  will  see  how  it  is  perfected 
by  the  changes,  and  what  a  cry  there  is  over  it. 

My  eyes  are  in  a  bad  state,  and  I  have  had  to  dictate.  God 
forgive  you  for  troubling  me  just  when  I  am  busy  with  my 
letters  on  Germany,  which  will  appear  there  and  here  at  the 
same  time.  I  need  to  be  in  a  good  humor,  and  you  rob  me  of 
it.  You  are  so  rich,  and  my  things  have  helped  to  make  you 
so,  and  now  you  want  to  take  away  my  poor  two  sous  !  I  can't 
believe  it — it  is  incredible — a  vile  "Winter's  Tale." 

PARIS,  January  8,  1845. 

Dearest  Campe :  In  spite  of  our  late  difference  I  know 
you  will  stand  by  me  as  a  friend,  and  I  claim  your  good  offices 
in  a  very  delicate  matter.  You  will  readily  understand  the 
matter.  I  send  you  two  letters  ;  one  is  a  letter  from  Karl 
Heine,  which  you  will  be  good  enough  to  preserve  for  me. 
You  see  by  it  what  their  designs  are  on  me.  I  believe  that,  if 
I  will  consent  to  be  gagged,  my  allowance  will  be  paid  as 
hitherto  ;  they  want  to  have  a  hold  on  me,  so  that  I  shall  keep 


*A  {Misfortune.  317 

silent  about  the  will,  and  take  no  steps  against  the  Fould's, 
that  is,  Karl  Heine's  wife  and  mother-in-law,  whose  interests  I 
have  opposed.  I  also  send  you  a  letter  for  Karl  Heine,  which 
you  must  read  and  keep  a  copy  of  for  me.  Send  the  original 
carefully  sealed  to  Karl  Heine.  I  write  in  the  greatest  haste. 
You  must  know  this  much — that  I  am  beginning  a  fight  to  the 
death,  and  will  have  a  public  decision  of  the  courts  in  my 
favor,  unless  Karl  Heine  gives  up.  I  will  have  my  right,  if  I 
have  to  seal  it  with  my  death.  Speak  to  Sieveking  to  try  to 
influence  my  cousin  through  Halle,  who  has  done  much  harm 
in  the  matter.  Do  you  know  anyone  else  who  could  talk  to 
him  ?  I  write  in  the  greatest  haste.  Est  periculum  in  tnora. 

In  a  few  days  I  will  send  you  full  powers  for  a  lawyer.  I 
will  send  you  the  necessary  papers  to  prove  my  case  ;  in  short, 
I  will  act  without  delay,  although  I  am  sick  and  wretched  and 
can  hardly  hold  a  pen.  What  a  misfortune  it  is  !  I  really  did 
nothing  to  provoke  it.  .  .  I  am  resolved  to  anything,  being 
embittered  by  unheard  of  treatment.  My  wife  has  for  two 
days  sat  by  the  fire  like  a  statue,  not  speaking  a  word  ;  these 
unheard  of  things  have  petrified  her.  I  was  never  so  thor- 
oughly resolved  as  I  am  now,  and  these  cunning  people  have 
done  a  very  stupid  thing  in  sparing  me  now.  Act  for  me.  .  . 


PARIS,  January  9,  1845. 
To  J.  H.  Detmold: 

You  may  always  count  on  getting  a  letter  from  me  when  I 
am  in  great  trouble.  You  may  have  already  heard  from  Ham- 
burg what  a  misfortune  has  befallen  me.  I  do  not  mean  my 
uncle's  death,  but  the  way  he  has  treated  me.  From  many 
circumstances  I  had  long  suspected  that  it  had  been  put  into 
his  head  that  I  should  squander  any  considerable  sum,  or  that 
it  would  be  sequestrated  by  the  government.  My  allowance 
was  a  settled  thing.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  did  not  expect  to  be 
largely  remembered  in  his  will,  but  only  for  an  increased  allow- 
ance. And  only  a  week  after  his  death  (on  the  3oth  ! )  I 
received  a  long  letter,  apparently  written  on  the  day  of  the 
funeral,  from  Karl  Heine,  in  which  he,  who  was  once  my 
kindest  friend,  informed  me  in  the  harshest  words  that  my 
uncle  left  me  only  eight  thousand  marks  in  his  will,  that  there 
was  no  mention  of  an  allowance,  but  that  he  would  give  me  two 
thousand  francs — on  condition  that,  if  I  wrote  anything  about 
his  father,  I  should  first  send  the  manuscript  for  his  inspection. 


318  'Dispute  over  the  Inheritance. 

I  wrote  him  a  long  and  contemptuous  letter  yesterday,  and 
informed  him  that  I  should  go  to  law,  for  I  had  proof  of  the 
agreement.  I  have  hitherto  had  forty-eight  hundred  francs  a 
year,  which  was  to  come  to  my  wife  after  my  death.  They  may 
have  thought  I  should  ask  for  some  favor,  and  then  perhaps  I 
might  have  had  as  much  as  hitherto.  But  I  think  threats  will 
do  more  and  accomplish  my  end  more  directly.  The  lawsuit 
is  no  threat ;  I  have  good  grounds  for  it.  But  if  I  seem  in 
earnest,  they  will  be  frightened  and  give  in.  The  press  here 
must  do  its  best  to  intimidate  them,  and  as  soon  as  the 
mud  begins  to  fly  it  will  work  on  Karl  Heine,  and  especially 
on  Adolf  Halle.*  So  I  leave  to  your  discretion  to  insert  a 
quantity  of  little  articles  in  the  papers  that  reach  Hamburg, 
in  which  my  uncle  must  be  defended,  as  he  meant  to  provide 
for  me  otherwise  than  by  his  will,  and  how  they  think  they 
have  a  hold  on  me,  and  are  threatening  to  stop  my  allowance 
if  I  dare  to  publicly  express  my  opinions  of  the  will  and 
the  artifices  contrived  against  me.  Public  opinion  is  easily 
won  for  poets — against  millionaires.  Campe  will  write  to 
you.  The  articles  must  all  be  dated  from  Hamburg.  Have 
you  any  friends  in  Hamburg  who  could  directly  influence 
Adolf  Halle  ?  You  see,  it  is  not  a  book  that  is  at  stake  this 
time,  but  my  existence.  Make  haste,  and  seize  the  advantage 
of  the  first  move.  If  possible  I  shall  go  myself  to  Hamburg 
next  week ;  but  I  tell  this  only  to  you,  and  not  to  my  mother 
or  sister,  who  would  be  uneasy,  as  I  must  travel  through  Ger- 
many— so  it  is  a  profound  secret.  My  arrival  will  prove  an 
unexpected  bombshell.  I  have  quieted  Mathilde  a  little  by 
telling  her  I  was  writing  to  you,  my  best  help  in  trouble.  As  I 
shall  soon  start,  you  need  not  answer — next  week,  if  possible. 
The  blow  was  like  thunder  out  of  a  clear  sky.  My  friends  the 
Foulds  here  have  stirred  up  Karl  Heine  against  me.  .  .  It  is  a 
mysterious  affair,  and  I  think  you  will  come  to  Hamburg  as 
soon  as  I  get  there.  Mathilde  is  ill  with  fear  and  anger  ;  all 
sorts  of  storms  at  once. 

PARIS,  January  13,  1845. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 

I  cannot  write  calmly  to  you  even  to-day.  I  am  so  ill  and 
can  see  so  little,  and  many  things  to  worry  me.  Lever  de 
boucliers  on  the  part  of  ray  enemies,  who  think  this  a  favor- 
able moment.  M.  Straus  and  his  gang  haunt  all  the  news- 
paper offices,  calumniating  me  and  paying  for  the  insertion  of 

*  Salomon  Heine's  son-in-law. 


Working  the  tf^ewfyapers.  319 

paragraphs.  So  my  wife's  condition  is  more  serious  and  the 
nights  are  bad.  I  am  sustained  only  by  my  good  conscience,  my 
contempt  for  the  bad,  and  my  injured  sense  of  right.  I  will 
vindicate  this  at  any  cost,  and  it  is  not  a  mere  question  of 
money.  I  could  settle  all  money  matters  by  conciliatory  steps 
and  ordinary  measures.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  even  the  sums 
are  falsely  stated  by  Karl  Heine.  Since  my  marriage  I  have 
received  yearly  from  my  uncle  forty-eight  hundred  francs  (he 
had  previously  fixed  on  only  four  thousand),  monthly  payments 
of  four  hundred  francs,  for  life,  and  to  be  continued  to  my 
wife  after  my  death.  I  am  rummaging  in  papers  and  half 
buried  in  them,  and  I  find  many  encouraging  things.  E.  Arago 
and  Cremieux  conferred  together  at  once,  so  that  I  shall  go 
into  my  lawsuit  with  a  free  wind,  if  I  undertake  it.  But  what 
a  misfortune  to  be  driven  to  such  an  extremity!  But  they 
force  me  to  it. 

I  have  just  received  a  very  friendly  letter  from  Praeses  Adolf 
Halle.  He  honors  the  deceased  with  the  highest  praises  ;  so 
the  inheritance  has  warmed  his  cold  blood.  He  is  very 
solicitous  about  my  health,  advises  me  to  take  a  serious  course 
of  treatment,  and  inquires  with  interest  about  my  literary 
work.  Others  provoke  me  with  their  coarse,  malicious  sym- 
pathy, this  man  by  his  cunning  politeness,  carefully  avoiding 
all  reference  to  my  material  wants,  which,  if  he  did  not  cause 
(God  forbid  I  should  accuse  him  of  that),  he  quietly  allowed 
to  arise  ;  he  stood  idly  by  and  saw  me  assassinated.  But  I 
think  he  is  the  best  of  them,  and  I  have  no  right  to  demand 
that  he  shall  show  more  heart  than  nature  gave  him. 


PARIS,  January  13,  1845. 
To  J.  H.  Detmold: 

I  will  only  say  to-day  that  I  am  too  unwell  to  travel,  shall 
stay  here,  and  can  get  an  answer  if  you  write  at  once.  I  am 
really  quite  ill,  and  have  something  like  a  nervous  fever.  You 
have  no  idea  what  mean  plots  I  see  hatching  against  me  here, 
so  that  I  have  not  a  moment's  peace.  Thence  it  comes  that 
my  domestic  Vesuvius,  which  had  been  quiet  for  three  years,  is 
again  spitting  fire  ;  Mathilde  is  in  a  most  excitable  state  in 
consequence  of  my  doings  at  Hamburg.  I  commend  these  to 
your  most  earnest  attention.  The  point  is  to  fix  the  basis  of 
my  finances,  my  allowance — the  forty-eight  hundred  francs 
that  my  uncle  so  solemnly  and  formally  promised  that  I  was 


320  ^Dispute  over  the  Inheritance. 

thunderstruck  when  my  cousin  informed  me  that  he  should  give 
me  only  half  as  much,  and  promising  this  for  the  future — a  fine 
speculation! — if  I  would  send  the  life  of  his  father,  which  I  am 
writing,  to  him  for  revision  !  I  hope  Campe  has  written  you 
the  state  of  things  and  that  you  have  already  taken  measures 
to  help  me,  both  through  the  press  and  private  influence.  But 
I  must  have  my  allowance,  undiminished  and  irrevocable, 
unhampered  by  any  condition.  So  act  on  this  information. 

''  Contemnere  mundum, 
Contemnere  seipsum, 
Contemnere,  se  contemni," 

the  old  monks  taught,  and  I  am  driven  to  the  saying  through 
disgust,  disgust  of  life,  contempt  of  man  and  the  press,  through 
ill  health,  through  Mathilde.  It  is  all  a  marasmus,  a  weariness 
of  thought  and  feeling,  one  great  yawn — and  the  pen  falls  from 
my  hand. 

My  friend,  think  and  act  for  me — I  cannot  see  what  I  write. 


PARIS,  February  4,  1845. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 

I  thank  you  for  the  sympathy  you  show  in  your  last  letter, 
and  accept  with  pleasure  your  offer  of  mediation  ;  of  course 
nothing  should  be  neglected  that  can  be  gained  by  peaceful 
means.  I  should  have  written  to  you  sooner,  but  I  have  been 
for  two  weeks  up  to  my  ears  in  a  heap  of  troubles,  principally 
owing  to  the  Prussian  persecution  of  all  who  write  for  the 
Vorwdrls*  and  to-day  Marx  must  go,  and  I  am  in  a  per- 
fect rage.  With  this  come  intrigues  of  the  vilest  sort  by  com- 
mon Frankfort  Jews  and  their  hirelings.  My  wife  ill,  and  I 
half  blind.  You  see  I  could  well  spare  the  Hamburg  war  of 
inheritance  ;  if  you  can  take  that  off  my  shoulders,  so  much 
the  better,  and  I  can  carry  on  my  other  wars  the  more  vigor- 
ously. I  send  my  hearty  thanks  to  Dr.  Heise  for  the  legal 
assistance  he  promises  me  ;  but  he  is  wrong  in  thinking  Karl 
Heine  will  not  let  things  come  to  an  Mat.  I  know  Karl 
Heine  better  ;  he  is  as  obstinate  as  he  is  reserved.  Nothing 
can  be  done  by  appealing  to  his  ambition,  and  in  this  respect 
he  is  the  opposite  of  his  father,  who  cringed  to  public  opinion 
like  a  courtier  ;  Karl  Heine  is  indifferent  what  people  think. 
He  has  only  three  passions — for  women,  cigars,  and  ease.  If 
*  A  newspaper  edited  in  Paris  by  Marx. 


Campe  {Mediates.  321 


I  could  stir  up  against  him  the  Hamburg  filles  de  joie  he 
would  soon  give  in.  I  cannot  take  away  his  cigars,  but 
his  quiet  I  can.  That  is  the  weak  place  in  his  armor 
where  I  can  strike — and  the  lawsuit  will  serve  well  for 
this  ;  but  it  will  be  only  a  frame  for  the  tribulations  I  am 
hatching  for  him.  I  can  keep  up  complaints  in  the  papers, 
write  articles,  call  God  and  man  to  witness,  require  that  each 
point  be  supported  by  oath,  more  majorum.  No — he  will 
never  stand  it,  and  will  beg  me  for  God's  sake  to  end  it — be- 
fore I  have  lost  my  case.  Whether  I  have  enough  testimony 
to  win  it  is  a  detail,  though  I  am  well  provided.  But  I  know 
two  well  the  fatal  nature  of  the  place  and  of  judicial  discretion. 
I  have  much  at  heart,  both  the  financial  question  and  my 
honor,  and  leave  both  to  you  ;  but  I  will  name  two  points  as 
my  ultimatum  : 

1.  My    allowance   for  life  must    be   legally  secured  to    me, 
unconditionally  and  undiminished,  such  as  I  received  it  in  the 
later  years  (namely,  forty-eight  hundred  francs  a  year),  so  that, 
should  I  survive  my  poor  cousin  (which  God  forbid  !),  I  may 
have  no  trouble  with  his  lawful  heirs  ;  that  half  of  my  allow- 
ance, in  case  I  die  before  my  wife,  shall  inure  to  her  benefit. 
Karl  Heine  will  no  doubt  assent  to  that  in  his  magnanimity,  as 
he  cannot  let  Heinrich  Heine's  widow  die  of  hunger. 

2.  On  my  part  I  am  willing  to  execute  a  bond,  in  which  I 
pledge  my  word  of  honor  never  to  write  a  line  that  can  wound 
my  family.     This  undertaking  may  be  drawn  in  as  binding  a 
form  as  possible — if  it  has  your  approval   it  shall  be  signed 
forthwith.     If  I  can  secure  my  peace  I  will  be  as  tame  and 
tractable  as  I  will  be  wild  and  obstinate  if  I  am  driven  to 
fight. 

The  eight  thousand  marks  left  to  me  in  the  will  must  be 
paid  to  me  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  they  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  question  of  my  allowance.  A  week  since  I  got  a 
notary  to  draw  up  full  powers,  authorizing  you  to  receive  this 
sum  for  me.  I  shall  not  be  able  for  about  a  week  to  send  you 
this  power  executed  with  all  legal  and  diplomatic  formalities. 
In  the  same  I  have  delegated  full  power  to  you  in  respect  to 
my  pension,  to  prosecute  my  legal  claims,  and  to  give  full 
authority  to  an  advocate  in  the  matter. 

Contrive  to  read  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  of  the  15th  of 
January  ;  there  is  a  long  article  on  me  in  it,  and  your  worship 
is  graciously  mentioned. 

With  regard  to  my  ultimatum  observe  this  : 


322  ^Dispute  over  the  Inheritance. 

I  cannot  allow  one  sou  to  be  deducted  from  the  amount  of 
the  allowance  (forty-eight  hundred  francs).  Insist  as  much  as 
possible  on  one-half  coming  to  my  wife  after  my  decease.  If 
you  find  insuperable  objection,  give  up  this  last  point.  I  think 
I  can  obtain  it  later,  when  Karl  Heine  has  grown  calmer.  This 
will  give  them  a  chance  to  be  generous,  or  to  seem  so.  It  is 
indifferent  to  me  if  they  take  the  credit  of  doing  everything  out 
of  generosity.  In  this  respect,  my  dear  Campe,  you  must  give 
them  all  possible  chance.  In  any  statement  that  you  may  agree 
to  print,  announcing  through  the  press  the  end  of  the  matter, 
you  may  lay  all  the  blame  on  me,  expatiate  on  the  generosity 
of  the  family — in  short,  sacrifice  me.  I  tell  you  distinctly  now, 
I  have  no  vanity  like  other  people,  and  care  nothing  for  public 
opinion  ;  the  only  thing  of  any  importance  to  me  is  to  attain 
my  purpose  and  preserve  my  self-esteem. 

As  to  the  agreement  that  I  am  ready  to  sign,  I  do  not  care 
how  binding  you  make  it.  Assuredly,  whatever  I  write,  I  will 
not  submit  it  to  the  approval  of  my  relations;  but  I  will  swallow 
down  my  wrath,  and  write  nothing  about  the  pack  of  knaves, 
who  may  enjoy  their  obscure  existence  in  peace,  secure  of  dull 
forgetfulness  after  their  death.  If  I  should  ever  get  on  a 
better  footing  with  Karl  Heine  I  can  easily  come  to  an  under- 
standing with  him  on  the  point  which  I  now  unconditionally 
surrender.  You  can  therefore  oppose  the  strongest  guarantees 
to  any  anxiety  they  may  feel  and  satisfy  all  of  them.  After 
all,  I  have  better  sort  of  people  to  write  about  than  my  uncle's 
son-in-law. 

So  your  hands  are  free,  and  I  beg  you  to  set  my  mind  at 
rest,  which  is  really  worthy  of  some  better  occupation.  This 
matter  interrupted  me  in  an  important  work,  and  odious  money 
disputes  kill  all  poetry  in  me  !  And  then  a  lawsuit !  If  I  had 
no  wife  and  no  engagements  I  would  fling  the  whole  of  the 
trash  at  these  people's  feet.  Unluckily  my  will  is  as  violent  as 
a  madman's — it  is  my  nature.  I  may  end  in  a  madhouse.  .  . 


PARIS,  May  24,  1845. 
To  Heinrich  Laube  : 

I  should  long  ago  have  thanked  you  for  the  interest  you 
have  taken  in  my  family  troubles ;  but  the  state  of  my  eyes 
does  not  allow  me  to  write  much,  and  I  have  since  been  in 
poor  condition.  My  disease  is  paralysis,  which  is,  unfor- 
tunately, increasing.  I  hardly  do  any  work,  can  barely  read 


Increasing  Infirm  ities.  323 

six  lines  at  a  time,  and  try  to  divert  my  thoughts  ;  heart  and 
stomach,  and  perhaps  the  brain  also,  are  sound. 

My  family  affairs  are  now  half  and  half  in  order,  and  were 
it  otherwise  I  should  trouble  myself  but  little  about  them  at  a 
moment  when  I  am  so  seriously  ill  in  body.  My  mind  is  cheer- 
ful, even  gay  ;  I  am  in  no  want  of  good  store,  good  luck  even, 
and  besides,  I  am  in  love — with  my  wife.  But  physically  I  am 
rascally  ill. 

I  wanted  to  go  to  the  Pyrenees,  but  the  weather  is  too  bad  ; 
later  the  sun  will  be  too  much  for  my  eyes,  and  I  shall  go  into 
the  country  near  Paris.  My  wife,  who  is  also  poorly,  offers 
her  kind  remembrances  to  you  and  Mme.  Laube  ;  I  promised 
to  send  them  with  mine.  When  shall  we  see  you  again  in 
Paris  ?  As  you  are  now  so  much  and  so  fortunately  busy  with 
the  stage,  Paris  must  surely  offer  you  better  chances  than 
formerly. 

I  am  living  here  quite  retired  ;  I  do  not  know  what  is  going 
on  over  there  ;  Campe  hardly  ever  sends  me  any  news,  and  I 
pray  you  to  think  of  me  if  anything  happens  with  you  that  has 
any  direct  interest  for  me. 

Write  soon  to  me  ;  any  mark  of  friendly  interest  is  more  to 
me  than  of  old,  and  you  belong  to  the  3^  people  in  Germany 
that  I  love. 

MONTMORENCY,  July  21,  1845. 

To  Julius  Campe  : 

I  would  have  answered  your  last  at  once  had  I  not  been 
confined  to  my  bed  for  two  weeks,  and  writing  with  half  an 
eye  been  therefore  doubly  painful  to  me.  To-day  I  am  up, 
weak  and  exhausted,  but  the  first  thing  I  do  shall  be  to  set  you 
at  ease  as  to  the  state  of  my  health.  It  is  by  no  means  so 
desperate  as  people  think  in  Germany,  to  judge  from  the  letters 
I  receive.  On  top  of  the  trouble  in  my  eyes  came  a  stiffness 
of  the  upper  part  of  my  body,  which  I  hope  is  improving.  I 
could  not  travel  to  the  baths,  so  I  came  into  the  country  to 
Montmorency,  where  my  wife  nurses  me  tenderly.  I  keep  up 
my  spirits,  think  a  great  deal,  and  if  my  physical  condition 
permits,  will  bring  forth  something  this  year,  with  your  help  as 
accoucheur.  But  the  restoration  of  my  health  is  the  first  thing 
of  all ;  everything  must  be  postponed  to  that — my  financial 
difficulties  and  disputes  with  my  family,  which  seem  to  be 
getting  settled,  but  are  not  yet  over — as  I  must  on  no  account 
excite  myself  or  busy  myself  with  unpleasant  expectorations — 


324  ^Dispute  over  the  Inheritance. 

and  so  must  defer  arranging  the  details  with  Karl  Heine.  He 
has  behaved  horribly  to  me,  and  does  not  dream  of  the  nature 
of  what  he  has  done. 

I  must  also  thank  you  for  your  last  letter  but  one  ;  your 
truly  friendly  zeal  did  me  good  ;  I  thank  you  from  the  bottom 
of  my  heart.  I  congratulate  you  on  your  marriage  ;  may 
Heaven  have  sent  you  a  good  number  in  the  lottery  !  Marriage 
is  a  good  thing  everywhere,  but  in  Germany  it  is  a  necessity. 

It  would  certainly  be  well  for  me  to  come  to  Hamburg,  and 
I  cherished  the  hope  of  doing  so,  but  it  is  quite  impossible;  I 
must  avoid  all  emotions.  If  I  live  long  my  family  differences 
will  heal  of  themselves  ;  and  if  I  do  not  live  long  the  healing 
would  not  do  me  any  good.  Such  is  my  present  idea  ;  and  I 
enjoy  these  moments  free  from  pain  in  country  quiet. 

I  will  soon  comply  with  your  wish,  and  send  you  "Atta 
Troll."  It  shall  be  taken  from  my  desk  next  week,  and  I  will 
busy  myself  seriously  with  it ;  you  shall  soon  have  ir. 


OCTOBER  31,  1845. 

I  have  put  off  writing  for  a  long  time,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  every  letter  gives  my  poor  eyes  terrible  pain,  and  also 
because  I  am  ashamed  not  to  have  yet  sent  the  long  promised 
"  Atta  Troll."  This,  however,  is  not  my  fault.  The  misfor- 
tunes of  this  year  have  so  disturbed  my  mind  that  until  to-day 
I  have  been  waiting  for  a  bright  hour,  which  was  indispensable, 
to  enable  me  to  write  the  bright  portions  that  are  wanting  in  a 
corresponding  tone.  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  I  have  been  terribly 
used  ;  my  genius  has  been  shamefully  outraged.  I  can  no 
longer  hide  the  wounds  from  my  own  eyes,  and  it  will  be  years 
before  the  old  humor  flows  freely  again.  A  settled  gravity,  a 
turbulent  violence,  have  seized 'upon  me  which  might  perhaps 
allow  of  some  characteristically  fierce  outburst  in  prose  and 
verse — but  that  is  not  what  is  suitable  nor  what  I  want.  Once 
life  all  sweetness  ;  now  gloom  and  a  longing  for  death. 

I  pray  you  to  wait  for  "  Atta  Troll "  awhile,  some  six  weeks 
or  two  months.  I  might  spoil  it  in  my  present  mood.  Heaven 
knows  what  will  become  of  my  poor  eyes ;  the  left  one  has 
been  closed  since  January,  and  the  right  one  is  painful  and 
weak.  I  cannot  read,  though  I  yet  write,  and  I  am  going  on  to 
total  blindness.  I  go  about  a  great  deal,  but  not  to  the  Bourse, 
as  M.  Bornstein  insinuates  in  various  German  papers.  I 
have  not  set  foot  in  the  great  gambling  house  for  fourteen 


Increasing  Infirm  ities.  325 

years  ;  but  the  establishment  of  railroads  in  which  my  friends 
(for  instance,  all  the  old  Saint  Simonists,  with  Enfantin  at  their 
head)  show  great  zeal,  interests  and  employs  me  both  finan- 
cially and  intellectually.  I  look  for  great  profits  from  them 
in  the  future,  but  have  not  yet  realized  them.  I  am  still  in 
very  narrow  circumstances,  and  have  but  scanty  means  of  sub- 
sistence. I  tell  you  this  that  you  may  distinctly  understand  I 
depend  on  you. 

I  am  still  on  a  very  uncomfortable  footing  with  my  cousin 
Karl  Heine.  Everybody  to  whom  I  have  confidentially  stated 
the  case  beg  me  to  leave  the  settlement  to  time  and  trust  to 
Karl  Heine's  better  nature,  which  will  show  itself  finally  ;  that 
I  shall  not  lose  a  penny.  Good  Meyerbeer  told  me  so  last 
evening,  made  himself  personally  answerable  for  the  deficit, 
and  long  ago  gave  me  a  written  attestation  that  Salomon  Heine, 
when  settling  my  allowance  through  him,  fixed  it  as  for  my 
life,  its  purpose  being  to  save  my  old  age  from  care,  and  thus 
secure  me  freedom  of  mind.  But  there  was  no  want  of  proofs 
and  documents  under  my  uncle's  own  hand,  and  it  was  all  of 
no  avail ;  for  I  did  not  want  to  bring  a  suit,  and  Karl  Heine 
persists  in  his  deliberate  injustice  with  incredible  obstinacy. 
I  tell  him  in  every  letter  that  the  seed  of  an  angry  outbreak 
remains  so  long  as  I  am  deprived  of  a  single  shilling  of  the 
allowance  that  he  is  bound  to  pay  in  his  father's  name  ;  while 
I,  not  to  appear  obstinate,  am  ready  to  be  thankful  for  the 
payment  as  for  an  act  of  favor,  provided  it  be  undi 'minished and 
unconditional.  I  will  make  no  conditions — I  will  surrender 
nothing  of  my  dignity  as  an  author  or  the  liberty  of  my  pen  ; 
but  as  a  man  I  will  respect  all  family  considerations. 

I  hope  you  are  happy  in  your  marriage  ;  I  am  moderately 
so  in  mine.  My  wife  is  a  good,  noble  girl,  but  unhappily 
suffers  much  from  a  fatal  disease.  I  may  perhaps  come  to 
Hamburg  in  March. 

PARIS,  January  3,  1846. 

To  Varnhagen  von  Ense  : 

This  is  the  first  letter  I  have  written  in  this  new  year,  and  I 
begin  it  with  the  heartiest  good  wishes.  May  you  be  blessed 
this  year  in  body  and  mind.  I  am  grieved  to  hear  that  you 
are  often  pulled  down  by  bodily  ailments.  I  should  have  been 
glad  to  say  a  comforting  word  to  you  from  time  to  time,  but 
Hecuba  is  a  poor  consoler.  I  have  been  wretchedly  of  late, 
and  writing  always  reminds  me  of  my  bodily  miseries  ;  I  can 


326  'Dispute  over  the  Inheritance. 

hardly  see  my  own  letters,  as  I  have  one  eye  already  closed  and 
one  closing,  and  every  letter  is  a  torture  to  me.  I  therefore 
joyfully  take  the  opportunity  of  sending  you  news  of  myself  by 
the  mouth  of  a  friend  ;  and  as  this  friend  is  initiated  into  all 
my  troubles,  he  can  tell  you  in  detail  how  horribly  I  have  been 
treated  by  my  kith  and  kin,  and  what  remains  to  be  done  for 
me  in  the  matter.  My  friend  Herr  Lasalle,  who  brings  you 
this  letter,  is  a  young  man  of  remarkable  intellectual  gifts,  of 
profound  learning  and  extensive  information,  with  the  keenest 
intellect  I  ever  met.  To  the  most  copious  faculty  of  expression 
he  joins  an  energy  of  will  and  an  habilett  in  execution  which 
astound  me  ;  and  if  his  sympathy  for  me  does  not  fade  out,  I 
expect  the  greatest  assistance  from  him.  At  any  rate,  this 
union  of  knowledge  and  power,  of  talent  and  character,  was  a 
delightful  spectacle  to  me  ;  and  you,  with  your  many-sidedness 
of  perception,  will  fully  appreciate  it.  Herr  Lasalle  is  distinctly 
a  child  of  these  later  times,  which  care  nothing  for  resignation 
and  modesty,  with  which  we,  more  or  less  hypocritically,  idled 
and  dreamed  away  in  our  day.  The  new  generation  seeks  to 
enjoy  and  thrust  itself  forward  ;  we  of  the  old  school  bowed 
humbly  to  the  invisible,  sighed  for  phantom  kisses  and  the 
odor  of  sweet  flowers,  resigned  ourselves  with  a  tear,  and  were 
perhaps  happier  than  the  brave  gladiators  who  boldly  face  the 
deadly  struggle.  The  reign  of  romance  with  its  thousand 
years  has  found  its  end  ;  and  I  was  its  last,  abdicating,  king  of 
fable.  Had  I  not  flung  the  crown  from  my  brow  and  put  on  a 
srnock  frock,  they  would  no  doubt  have  cut  off  my  head.  Four 
years  ago,  before  I  had  turned  disloyal  to  myself,  I  still 
delighted  to  sport  in  the  moonlight  with  the  companions  of 
my  dreams — and  I  wrote  "  Atta  Troll,"  the  swan  song  of  the 
dying  period,  and  dedicated  it  to  you.  It  belonged  to  you  ; 
for  you  had  been  my  nearest  affined  companion  in  arms,  both 
in  jest  and  earnest.  You  helped  me  to  bury  the  olden  time, 
and  aided  in  the  birth  of  the  new.  Yes,  we  brought  it  to  the 
light  of  day,  and  were  affrighted.  We  are  like  a  poor  hen  who 
hatches  a  duck's  egg,  and  sees  with  horror  her  nursling  rush 
into  the  water  and  swim  away  in  triumph  ! 

You  see,  dear  friend,  how  vague  and  random  my  thoughts 
are.  My  health  is  responsible  for  my  feeble  minded  state. 
Let  the  cruel  force  that  binds  my  bosom  like  an  iron  hoop  but 
loose  its  clasp,  and  the  old  energy  will  be  set  free.  But  it  will 
be  long  ere  that  comes.  The  treachery  done  me  in  the  bosom 
of  my  family,  where  I  was  trusting  and  defenseless,  smote  me 


The  Old  and  &£ew  Generations.  327 

like  a  bolt  from  the  clear  sky,  and  almost  wounded  me  to 
death.  Whoever  considers  the  facts  must  see  the  murderous 
intent  ;  sneaking  mediocrity,  furiously  jealous  of  genius,  after 
twenty  years'  waiting  had  its  hour  of  triumph.  It  is  an  old 
story  ever  renewed. 

Yes,  I  am  very  ill  in  body,  but  my  mind  has  suffered  little  ;  a 
tired  flower,  it  droops  a  little,  but  is  not  withered,  and  stands 
firmly  rooted  in  truth  and  love. 

And  now  farewell,  dear  Varnhagen.  My  friend  will  tell  you 
how  much  and  how  constantly  I  think  of  you — and  of  course 
now  more  than  ever,  now  that  I  cannot  read,  and  in  the  long 
winter  evenings  have  only  memories  to  cheer  me. 


PARIS,  January  n,  1846. 
To  Alexander  von  Humboldt  : 

The  good  will  with  which  you  have  honored  me  for  years 
emboldens  me  to-day  to  ask  a  service  at  your  hands. 

Some  painful  family  matters  call  me  to  Hamburg  this  spring, 
and  I  may  then,  if  circumstances  are  favorable,  take  an  excur- 
sion of  some  days  to  Berlin,  partly  to  see  old  friends,  partly  to 
consult  the  Berlin  doctors  about  a  serious  disease. 

On  a  journey  of  that  kind,  whose  only  purpose  is  relaxation 
and  health,  I  ought  not  to  be  troubled  by  any  atra  cura  ;  and 
I  address  myself  to  you,  Herr  Baron,  begging  you  to  use  your 
powerful  interest  with  the  proper  magistrates  to  obtain  positive 
assurance  that,  during  my  stay  in  the  royal  Prussian  territory, 
I  shall  not  be  called  to  account  on  any  charges  referring  to  the 
past.  I  am  well  aware  that  such  a  request  is  not  in  accord 
with  administrative  usages  ;  but  at  a  time  in  itself  somewhat 
exceptional,  there  may  perhaps  be  a  disposition  to  enrich  the 
code  of  procedure  with  an  article  referring  to  exceptional 
contemporaries.* 

PARIS,  February  5,  1846. 
To  Julius  Campe : 

My  stay  in  a  place  where  I  ought  to  have  serene  tranquillity 
of  mind  will  not,  I  hope,  be  disturbed  by  painful  retrospec- 
tions or  a  renewal  of  family  quarrels.  When  I  recently  informed 
Karl  Heine  why  I  must  visit  Hamburg  next  spring,  I  begged 
him,  for  God's  sake,  to  settle  beforehand  the  differences  still 
existing  between  us.  But,  unfortunately,  the  more  I  mortify 
my  pride,  the  more  submissive  and  suppliant  I  show  myself, 

*  Von  Humboldt's  efforts  with  the  magistrates  were  ineffectual. 


328  ^Dispute  over  the  Inheritance. 

the  more  snappish,  arrogant,  and  abusive  is  my  poor  cousin, 
who  takes  gentleness  for  weakness,  and  does  not  understand 
that,  against  anyone  whom  I  did  not  love  as  I  do  him,  I  should 
have  pitilessly  used  all  my  full  strength. 

I  will  not  reproach  you  for  having,  like  so  many  others  who 
believe  in  Karl  Heine's  magnanimity,  moved  me  to  this  self- 
humiliation,  and  bidden  me  trust  to  the  healing  influence  of 
time.  Choosing  the  path  of  kindness  so  strongly  urged  by  my 
friends  and  by  my  own  heart,  which  could  not  reconcile  itself 
to  a  fight  with  Karl  Heine,  I  yielded  to  my  better  impulses — 
though  my  experience  of  things  continually  whispered  in  my  ear 
that  little  is  obtained  in  this  world  by  prayers  and  tears,  but 
everything  by  the  sword,  from  men  of  money!  My  sword  is  the 
pen  ;  and  it  would  need  this  sword  at  last  to  prevail  against  the 
money-bags  and  chicanery  that  my  cousin  has  at  his  service. 
This  continual  contradiction  between  my  feelings  and  my 
reason,  has  kept  me  in  a  pitiful  state  of  hesitation  for  a  whole 
year  ;  but  now,  when  I  see  that  no  heart  beats  in  Karl  Heine's 
bosom,  after  I  have  gone  begging  to  him  instead  of  demanding 
my  rights,  and  all  in  order  not  to  be  forced  to  draw  my  sword 
against  the  friend  of  my  youth  and  brother,  now  there  is 

nothing  left  for  me  but Yes  ;  I  have  for  some  days  been 

busy  with  a  terrible  statement,  from  which  it  will  be  seen  that 
Karl  Heine's  insolence  has  at  last  got  the  better  of  my  patience. 
I  will  discontinue  the  suit,  that  men  may  see  it  is  no  ques- 
tion of  money.  I  need  not  fear  Dr.  Halle's  maneuvers  here, 
on  my  own  field,  where  I  am  the  presiding  judge,  and  shall  not 
be  confined  to  the  old  ruts  of  imperial  procedure.  I  look 
on  my  allowance  as  lost,  and  put  it  to  the  venture.  My 
doctors  (Dr.  Roth  and  Dr.  Sichel),  as  friends  who  know  I  am 
a  man  who  does  not  fear  death,  confess  that  I  have  not  long  to 
live  ;  and  my  wife  will  enter  a  convent  and  live  on  the  small 
annuity  you  pay  her.  The  money  question  becomes  a  second- 
ary one  ;  I  am  at  ease,  for  I  have  done  all  that  a  man  should 
do  out  of  love,  and  more  ;  and  genius  accomplishes  the  task 
imposed  by  fate.  You  see,  my  friend,  I  am  much  to  be  pitied  ; 
and  it  is  not  my  fault  if  I  do  not  write  lively  bear  hunts  and 
winter's  tales. 

PARIS  (I  don't  exactly  know),  1846. 
To  Ferdinand  Lasalle. 

Dearest  brother  in  arms :  I  will  write  you  to-day,  although 
my  head  is  in  a  terrible  state,  and  every  letter  costs  me  a  piece 


depression.  329 

of  my  life.  I  say  nothing  about  my  eyes  ;  my  lips,  tongue,  etc., 
are  much  more  seriously  affected,  and  the  brain  sympathizes 
with  them.  The  cold  and  noise  of  Paris  are  very  bad  for  me, 
and  all  my  hopes  are  fixed  on  the  South  ;  the  doctors  also 
advise  it.  I  therefore  give  up  the  Berlin  plan,  and  gladly  ; 
and  if  the  business  with  Karl  Heine  can  be  first  arranged  I 
shall  not  go  to  Hamburg,  but  forthwith  to  Italy,  to  attend  only 
to  the  restoration  of  my  health.  This  is  between  ourselves. 
I  am  unhappy  and  wretched  as  I  never  was  before  ;  and  but 
for  leaving  behind  me  a  helpless  wife,  I  would  quietly  take  my  hat 
and  bid  the  world  good-by.  Everything  has  gone  favorably 
with  me  for  four  weeks  ;  my  finances  improve,  my  wife  is 
sweeter  than  ever,  my  vanity  is  tickled,  I  can  bear  my  illness 
in  its  present  state — but  the  business  that  I  had  begun  to  take 
calmly  now  sets  my  mind  in  such  a  turmoil  that  I  sometimes 
really  fear  I  shall  go  mad. 

FEBRUARY  27,  1846. 

My  physical  condition  is  dreadful.  I  give  a  kiss  and  feel 
nothing,  my  lips  are  so  benumbed.  My  gums  and  part  of  my 
tongue  are  also  affected,  and  all  I  eat  tastes  like  earth.  I  have 
been  trying  royal  Russian  baths  lately,  according  to  the  strictest 
rules.  My  courage  holds  out. 

I  am  on  pleasant  terms  with  your  sister,  and  we  talk  by  the 
hour  about  you.  She  has  a  great  deal  of  talent,  and  is  charm- 
ingly like  you.  She  gets  on  very  well  with  my  wife.  In  a  few 
days  I  am  going  to  give  her  a  great  dinner  here  at  home,  to 
which  I  have  invited  Roger,  Balzac,  Gautier,  Gozlan,  etc.  If 
I  could  only  have  you  !  I  should  like  to  have  you  here  with  me 
for  a  week  (not  longer).  Directly  after  your  departure  I  wrote 
my  ballet,  in  two  mornings,  and  it  may  be  given  in  London 
this  year.  I  have  also  been  busy  with  the  Bourse  again,  but 
with  very  bad  luck.  I  must  do  it,  or  I  shall  think  all  the  time 
of  my  family  troubles  and  go  mad.  In  spite  of  my  wretched 
state  I  try  to  amuse  myself,  only  not  with  women,  who  might 
give  me  a  finishing  stroke.  Farewell  ;  I  long  to  hear  how  you 
are.  Knowing  your  disposition  I  am  not  without  a  narrow- 
minded  anxiety  for  you.  I  talk  business  with  your  brother-in- 
law  ;  his  affairs  are  prospering  and  he  is  a  real  genius. 

BAREGES,  HAUTES  PYRE'NE'ES,  June  21,  1846. 
To  Dr.  L.  Wertheim  : 

I  have  been  here  only  since  yesterday,  as  I  spent  fourteen 
days  at  Bagneres  de  Bigorre,  feeling  too  ill  to  travel  farther, 


330  'Dispute  over  the  Inheritance. 

though  Bagneres  is  only  a  day's  travel  from  here.  .  .  I  can 
hardly  eat,  from  the  increased  soreness  of  my  tongue  and 
throat,  constant  suffering  and  giddiness — in  a  word,  I  am  in 
wretched  case.  I  shall  have  to  stay  here  longer  than  I  wished. 

My  good  spirits  do  not  fail  me,  to  which  my  wife's  uncon- 
querable gay  good-humor  greatly  contributes,  though  she  is 
somewhat  unwell.  The  parrot  is,  thank  God,  quite  well,  and 
sends  you  his  compliments. 

Write  soon  and  tell  me  all  the  news. 


TARBES,  September  i,  1846. 
To  Julius  Campe : 

I  have  put  off  writing  a  long  time,  hoping  to  be  better,  so 
that  I  might  have  pleasanter  news  to  send  you  than  I  have 
to-day.  Unhappily  my  condition,  which  has  grown  decidedly 
worse  since  the  end  of  May,  has  now  assumed  such  a  pronounced 
form  that  I  myself  am  frightened.  During  the  first  weeks  I 
spent  at  Bareges  I  gained  somewhat,  and  had  hopes  ;  but  I 
have  gone  on  at  a  snail's  pace.  My  organs  of  speech  are  so 
stiff  that  I  cannot  speak,  and  I  have  not  been  able  to  eat  for 
four  months,  from  difficulty  in  chewing  and  swallowing,  and 
loss  of  taste.  I  have  also  grown  terribly  thin,  my  poor  belly 
is  sadly  shrunken,  and  I  look  like  a  withered,  one-eyed  Hanni- 
bal. Bad  symptoms  (constant  faintings)  have  now  persuaded 
me  to  hurry  back  to  Paris,  and  I  left  Bagneres  yesterday.  I 
am  not  at  all  frightened,  but  quite  composed,  and,  as  before, 
bear  with  patience  what  cannot  be  helped  and  is  the  old 
lot  of  man. 

My  own  opinion  is  that  I  am  past  saving,  but  that  for  awhile, 
one  or,  at  the  most,  two  years,  I  shall  linger  on  in  sad  pain.  It  is 
no  business  of  mine,  but  of  the  eternal  gods — who  have 
nothing  to  reproach  me  with,  and  whose  bidding  I  have  always 
done  on  earth  with  courage  and  love.  A  happy  conscience  of 
having  lived  a  good  life,  and  filled  my  own  place  in  these 
troubled  times,  will,  I  hope,  go  with  me  at  the  last  hour  to  the 
blank  abyss.  Between  ourselves,  that  is  the  least  to  be  dreaded; 
dying  is  a  fearful  thing,  but  not  death,  if  there  be  any  death. 
Death  is  perhaps  the  last  superstition. 

What  can  I  say  of  the  chance  which,  just  at  this  moment, 
could  spread  a  false  report  of  my  death  in  Germany  ?  In 
other  days  I  should  have  laughed  over  it.  Luckily  I  had, 
almost  at  that  very  moment,  an  article  in  \.\\z  Allgemeine  Zeitung, 


Gloomy  Forbodings.  331 


which  must  have  spoiled  my  enemies'  joy,  unless  they  spread 
the  report  themselves. 

As  soon  as  I  reach  Paris  I  will  write  you  about  my  complete 
works,  which  I  cannot  longer  see  delayed.  That  I  have  not 
yet  sent  you  the  "  Troll  "  is  not  my  fault.  My  family  affairs 
have  robbed  me  of  my  spirits,  and  my  increasing  illness  pre- 
vents my  carrying  on  the  poem  as  I  should  have  been  glad  to 
do.  But  now  I  will  dispatch  it,  as  best  may  be,  and  set  to  it 
at  once  on  my  arrival  in  Paris.  My  mind  is  clear,  and  even 
creatively  inclined,  but  not  so  delightfully  gay  as  in  my  days 
of  good  fortune.  God  forgive  my  family  the  wrong  they  have 
done  me.  It  is  truly  not  the  money,  but  the  moral  indignation 
I  feel  that  the  best  friend  of  my  youth,  and  a  blood  relation, 
should  not  have  held  his  father's  word  in  honor — this  is  what 
has  broken  my  heart,  and  will  kill  me.  I  hear  the  false  news 
of  my  death  greatly  shocked  my  cousin  ;  he  had  shocking 
reason  to  feel  it. 

PARIS,  October  19,  1846. 
To  Heinrich  Laube : 

I  am  enchanted  with  your  proposal  tp  come  here.  Only  carry 
it  out  soon.  You  must  hurry  a  bit  ;  for  although  my  disease  is 
one  that  progresses  quietly,  I  cannot  answer  for  a  salto  mortale, 
and  you  might  come  too  late  to  talk  with  me  on  immortality, 
literary  unions,  the  fatherland,  Campe,  and  such  important 
human  topics  ;  you  might  find  me  a  very  quiet  man.  I  shall 
stay  here  this  winter  in  any  case,  and  at  present  am  lodged 
(very  commodiously)  Faubourg  Poissonniere,  No.  41 ;  if  you  do 
not  find  me  here,  please  look  for  me  in  the  cemetery  of  Mont- 
martre — not  in  Pere  La  Chaise,  which  is  too  noisy  for  me. 

Pray  send  me  my  obituary ;  dying  people  seldom  have  the 
pleasure  of  reading  their  own  obituary.  The  false  report  of 
my  death  has  really  put  me  out  of  tune,  and  I  was  sorry  that 
my  friends  were  affected  by  it  ;  luckily  the  news  of  my  non- 
decease  came  immediately  afterward.  They  wonder  so  many 
false  stories  get  afloat  about  me,  and  say  I  am  a  complete 
myth.  I  could  easily  give  the  key  to  these  myths,  and  point 
out,  to  you  especially,  the  source  from  which  all  the  more  or  less 
silly,  but  always  malicious,  stories  of  my  private  life  arise.  M. 
Straus  here  confesses  to  having  spent  over  four  thousand  francs 
on  journals  and  journalists  to  bring  before  the  public  his 
clumsily  invented  calumnies  on  my  private  life,  published  by 
the  Spiegelbergs  we  know  so  well.*  I  have  never  chosen  to 

*  Spiegelberg  is  a  character  in  Schiller's  "  Robbers"-  and  the  name  is 
popularly  used  to  mean  "  a  hypocrite." 


332  'Dispute  over  the  Inheritance. 

protest  against  them,  so  as  not  to  give  people  topics  for  discus- 
sion. 

PARIS,  November  12,  1846. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 

As  to  the  complete  edition,  you  are  mistaken  if  you  think  I 
have  not  made  any  arrangement  for  the  event  of  my  death. 
By  my  will  I  have  charged  my  friends  Detmold  and  Laube  with 
overseeing  that  edition  in  my  place,  and  as  to  the  arrangement, 
I  will  briefly  tell  you  what  I  think  is  the  fittest,  so  that  you  may 
say  whether  you  agree  with  me  ;  for  I  have,  for  twenty  years, 
thought  most  of  your  business  interests,  and  set  aside  my  own. 

I  propose  to  you  to  publish  the  complete  edition  in  nineteen 
volumes.  .  . 

The  premature  notice  of  my  death  has  brought  me  many 
assurances  of  sympathy — good,  consoling  letters  in  heaps. 
Even  Karl  Heine  wrote  me  an  affectionate,  friendly  letter. 
The  rubbishy  shabby  dispute  over  money  is  settled,  and  this  is 
a  great  comfort  to  my  wounded  feelings.  But  my  trust  in  my 
family  is  at  an  end  ;  arjd  Karl  Heine  himself,  rich  as  he  is, 
and  affectionate  as  he  may  be  to  me,  would  be  the  last  person 
I  should  turn  to  in  time  of  need.  I  insisted,  obstinately,  that 
he  should  pay  me  the  last  shilling  of  what  I  thought  I  was 
entitled  to  by  his  father's  word  ;  but  I  certainly  would  not 
take  a  shilling  more  from  him.  We  both  behaved  foolishly  ; 
but  I  have  paid  dearest  for  it  with  the  remains  of  my  health. 
That  is  in  a  bad  way,  and  it  may  be  that  my  death  will  be  a 
capital  advertisement  for  you  of  my  collected  works  ;  you  will 
see  then  how  much  more  popular  I  am — though  I  am  sure,  from 
some  foolish  booksellers'  letters  (of  which  I  will  write  you  in 
my  next),  my  popularity  must  be  already  great.  One  offers 
me  an  astonishing  sum  for  a  popular  sketch  of  my  life  ;  (be 
easy  ;  I  shall  not  write  anything).  I  want  rest,  and  care 
nothing  for  my  reputation. 


To  Heinrich  Laube  : 

Come  to-day,  for  you  might  find  me  a  still  man  to-morrow. 
The  paralysis  of  my  body  comes  on  slowly,  to  be  sure,  and  it 
may  yet  be  some  time  before  the  heart  or  the  seat  of  life  in  the 
brain  is  affected,  and  an  end  put  to  the  farce  here  below;  but 
I  cannot  answer  for  a  salto  mortale,  and  want  to  draw  up  my 
will  with  you. 


<iA  Good  Advertisement.  333 

PARIS,  June  20,  1847. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 

The  cold  has  now  attacked  my  chest  also,  which  had  not 
yet  suffered  in  the  autumn.  I  should  like  to  go  South  for  it, 
and  try  to  get  through  the  winter  there  ;  but  my  finances  will 
not  permit  it,  and  so  I  shall  stay  in  Paris.  Let  us  begin  the 
collected  edition  late  in  the  autumn  and  early  winter,  and  go 
on  with  it  ;  and  to  this  end  give  me  a  distinct  answer  to  my 
scheme  of  arrangement  ;  you  have  not  said  a  syllable  about  it. 
It  looks  as  if  you  want  to  wait  for  my  death  as  a  good  adver- 
tisement for  the  collected  edition  ;  I  cannot  explain  your  long 
delay  in  any  other  way.  Be  easy  ;  the  advertisement  will  not 
fail  you — not  long. 

I  should  not  have  written  you  to-day,  dear  Campe,  if  I  had 
not  an  offer  to  make  you  for  a  new  publication,  and  had  not 
delayed  it  longer  than  I  ought.  It  is  a  ballet  that  I  wrote 
for  my  friend  Lumley,  in  London,  a  poem,  with  nothing  of 
the  ballet  but  the  form,  but  otherwise  one  of  my  greatest  and 
most  poetical  works.  The  subject  is  one  of  such  interest  to 
Germany,  and  so  worth  thought,  that  I  wrote  at  the  same  time 
a  humoristic  tetter  on  it ;  and  this  with  the  text  of  the  dance 
poem  and  some  notes,  which  I  add,  make  ten  printed  sheets, 
and  forms  a  little  book  that  may  stir  up  some  opposition,  but 
will  be  very  profitable  to  my  publisher.  What  is  the  title, 
what  is  the  subject?  The  secret  may  have  been  already 
betrayed,  but  it  shall  not  be  spread  through  you  ;  and  I  will 
not  send  on  the  manuscript  until  I  am  sure  that  the  ballet  has 
been  brought  out  in  London.  I  want  one  thousand  marks 
banco  from  you  for  this  little  book. 


MONTMORENCY,  August  28,  1847. 

To  Betty  Heine : 

Dear,  good  mother :  I  have  received  your  sweet  letter  of 
the  3d  of  August.  Everything  here  is  in  the  old  way,  and  I 
shall  stay  here  until  it  begins  to  be  autumnal.  My  eyes  in 
the  same  state,  and  writing  is  painful — so  I  hardly  write  at  all. 
I  write  to  you  to-day  principally  to  send  you  back  the  inclosed 
papers,  which  have  been  lying  ready  to  go  for  six  months, 
since  I  put  my  papers  in  order.  After  all,  why  should  I  keep 
them?  For,  to  tell  the  truth,  they  are  of  no  value  to  me, 
except  as  a  proof  of  your  motherly  love,  and  it  never  came 
into  my  head  to  use  them.  Max  will  agree  with  me  in  this 


334  dispute  over  the  Inheritance. 

matter.  My  advice  to  you  is  to  leave  the  whole  sum  to  my 
sister.*  My  brother  Max,  with  his  office  and  good  luck,  and 
no  wife  or  children,  is  provided  for,  well  provided  for  ;  I  have 
enough  to  live  on  for  my  life  ;  my  wife  is  provided  for,  and  is 
happy  in  your  love  ;  there  is  no  question  of  any  sacrifice. 

Be  persuaded  Gustav  has  as  little  need  of  this  money  as  I 
or  Max.  This  is  my  wish  and  my  advice,  both  of  which 
should  have  the  more  weight,  because  1  am  the  oldest  of  your 
children,  and  my  word  ought  to  make  you  easy  in  your  doubts. 


MONTMORENCY,  September  25,  1847. 
To  Dr.  L.  Wertheim  : 

Things  are  going  very  badly  with  me,  or  rather  they  do  not 
go  at  all ;  for  a  fortnight  my  legs  and  feet  have  been  so 
paralyzed  that  I  could  not  leave  my  room,  and  could  hardly 
take  a  few  steps.  The  bowels,  too,  are  paralyzed,  and  I  am 
very  ill.  I  shall,  therefore,  go  back  on  Thursday  to  my  old 
lodgings  (Fbg.  Poissonniere  41),  where  you  can  find  me 
Thursday  evening  or  Friday  morning.  Montmorency  has 
disagreed  with  me,  as  Bareges  did  last  year;  and  my  fate 
is  drawing  near  the  end.  I  bear  it  with  calmness  and 
pride.  .  . 

*  She  had  proposed  to  leave  her  little  properly  equally  to  her  three 
children. 


BOOK   FIFTH. 

THE  MATTRESS-GRAVE. 
1848-1856. 


CHAPTER  I. 

1  line  30. 

PARIS,  March  12,  1848. 

To  Alfred  Meissner  : 

You  can  easily  imagine  my  feelings  at  the  revolution  that  I 
see  going  on  under  my  eyes.  You  know  I  was  no  Republican, 
and  will  not  be  surprised  that  I  have  not  yet  become  one.  The 
doings  and  hopes  of  the  world  are  now  strangers  to  my  heart ; 
I  bow  to  fate,  as  I  am  too  weak  to  make  head  against  it,  but 
I  will  not  kiss  the  hem  of  its  garment — not  to  use  a  balder 
expression.  .  .  You  will  not  be  surprised  that  I  was  for  one 
moment  terribly  agitated,  and  I  felt  cold  in  my  back,  and  a 
prickling  like  needles  along  my  arms.  It  is  over  now.  It  was 
very  wearisome  to  see  nothing  but  Roman  faces  round  me  ; 
bombast  was  the  order  of  the  day,  and  Venedey  one  of  its 
heroes.  I  would  gladly  fly  from  this  annoying  bustle  of 
public  life  to  the  eternal  springtime  of  poesy  and  eternal 
things,  if  I  could  move  better  and  were  not  so  ill.  But  my 
infirmities,  which  I  must  drag  with  me  everywhere,  almost 
crush  me ;  and  I  think  you  must  make  haste,  dear  friend,  if 
you  wish  to  see  me  again. 


I  cannot  think  without  deep  emotion  of  the  evenings  in 
March,  1848,  when  the  good,  gentle  Ge"rard  de  Nerval  visited 
me  every  day  at  the  Barriere  de  la  Sante,  to  work  with  me  on 
the  translation  of  my  peaceful  German  fancies,  while  every 
political  passion  was  raging  round  us,  and  the  old  world  was 
tumbling  to  pieces  with  a  frightful  crash  !  Absorbed  as  we 
were  in  our  aesthetic,  our  idyllic  talk,  we  did  not  hear  the  cry 
of  the  terrible,  deep-bosomed  woman,  who  ran  through  the 
Paris  streets  howling  her  song  of  "Des  lampions!  des  lam- 
pions !  " — that  "  Marseillaise  "  of  the  February  Revolution  of 
unhappy  memory.  Unluckily  my  friend  Gerard  was  subject 
to  persistent  derangements  in  his  lucid  days  ;  and  I  discovered, 

337 


338  Illness. 

though  too  late  to  remedy  it,  that  he  had  skipped  seven  of  the 
poems  of  the  "cycle  "  of  which  the  "  North  Sea  "  is  composed. 
I  left  these  gaps  in  my  poems  rather  than  damage  the  whole  ; 
for  the  harmonious  unity  of  color  and  rhythm  might  well  have 
been  destroyed  by  the  introduction  of  portions  fn>m  my 
unpracticed  pen.  Gerard's  style  flowed  with  inimitably  sweet 
clearness,  equaled  only  by  the  wonderful  grace  of  his  soul. 
I  must  say  he  was  a  soul  rather  than  a  human  being — the  soul 
of  an  angel,  trite  as  the  phrase  sounds.  It  was  a  highly  sym- 
pathetic soul  ;  and  without  knowing  much  of  the  German 
language,  Gerard  divined  the  spirit  of  a  German  poem  better 
than  one  who  had  passed  his  life  in  the  study  of  the  language. 
And  he  was  a  great  artist ;  the  perfume  of  his  thoughts  was 
enshrined  in  a  wonderfully  chiseled  casket  of  gold.  Yet  I 
found  nothing  of  an  artist's  conceit  in  him  ;  he  was  childishly 
frank  ;  he  was  sensitively  delicate  ;  he  was  kind,  and  loved 
the  whole  world  ;  he  envied  no  man  ;  he  never  harmed  a  fly ; 
and  if  a  cur  chanced  to  bite  him  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
And  in  spite  of  this  superiority  of  talent,  charm,  and  sweet- 
ness, my  friend  Gerard,  as  you  know,  put  an  end  to  his  life  in 
the  ill-famed  lane  of  the  Vieille  Lanterne. 

Poverty  was  not  the  principal  cause  of  this  sad  event, 
although  it  contributed  to  it.  At  any  rate,  it  is  a  fact  that  the 
unhappy  man  had  in  that  fatal  hour  nothing  like  a  decent, 
well-warmed  room  at  his  disposal,  in  which  he  could  quietly 
make  his  preparations  to.  .  . 

Poor  youth  !  You  deserved  the  tears  that  flowed  for  your 
memory  ;  and  I  cannot  restrain  mine  as  I  write  these  lines. 
But  your  earthly  sufferings  are  ended,  while  those  of  your 
fellow-worker  at  the  Barriere  de  la  Sante  still  endure.  Be  not 
too  tenderly  moved  by  these  words,  dear  reader ;  the  day 
may  not  be  far  off  when  you  will  need  all  your  pity  for  your- 
self. Do  you  know  your  own  end  ? 


PARIS,  April  25,  1848. 
To  Julius  Campe: 

I  have  taken  untold  pains  to  hide  my  hopeless  condition 
from  my  mother,  and  I  commend  to  you  the  utmost  discre- 
tion. Heaven  will  perhaps  spare  the  old  woman  the  sorrow 
of  knowing  my  sufferings.  My  sister  must  therefore  know 
nothing,  and  I  have  always  contrived  to  deceive  her. 


Helpless.  339 

I  will,  as  I  said,  write  to  you  next  week — the  sick  are  always 
counting  on  better  days.  My  head  is  free,  clear-witted,  even 
bright  ;  my  heart,  too,  is  sound,  almost  greedy  for  life — and 
my  body  is  so  paralyzed,  mere  waste  paper.  I  am  buried 
alive,  as  it  were.  I  see  no  one,  speak  to  no  one. 

PASSY,  June  7,  1848. 

For  twelve  days  I  have  been  living  here  in  the  country, 
wretched  and  unhappy  beyond  measure.  My  disease  has 
made  frightful  progress.  For  a  week  I  have  been  completely 
paralyzed,  so  that  I  am  always  in  my  armchair  or  in  bed  ;  my 
legs  are  like  cotton  wool  and  I  am  carried  like  a  child.  Terri- 
ble cramps.  My  right  hand  is  beginning  to  die,  and  God 
knows  whether  I  can  write  to  you.  Dictating  is  painful  from 
the  paralysis  of  my  jaws.  My  blindness  is  the  least  of  my 
troubles. 

I  have  contrived  by  great  cunning  to  conceal  my  illness 
from  my  mother  and  sister.  The  former  must  know  nothing, 
for,  spite  of  my  state,  I  may  outlive  the  old  woman,  and  she 
will  be  spared  the  pain.  My  wife,  however,  wishes  me  to  tell  my 
sister  something  of  it,  so  that  they  may  not  reproach  her  when 
the  dark  day  comes.  I  therefore  authorize  you  to  inform  my 
sister,  with  all  due  precaution,  of  my  true  state.  But  she  can- 
not help  me,  neither  should  I  like  to  see  her  here.  I  beg  you 
to  let  only  my  brother  Max  know  of  the  aggravation  of  my 
condition  ;  I  should  also  like  to  have  his  address  without 
delay  ;  I  may  write  to  him  myself.  .  . 

PASSY,  June  16,  1848. 
To  Caroline  Jaubert  .- 

Citizeness  !  when  you  are  in  Paris,  and  go  to  walk  some 
day  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  I  pray  you  stop  for  a  few  min- 
utes at  Passy,  64  Grande  Rue,  where  a  poor  German  poet 
lives  in  a  garden,  who  is  now  quite  paralyzed.  My  feet  have 
become  entirely  stiff  ;  I  am  carried  and  fed  like  a  child. 
Greeting  and  brotherhood  ! 

[TO  HIS  SISTER.] 

PASSY,  June  10,  1848. 

Dearest  Sister:  My  wife  is  anxious  that  I  should  no  longer 
leave  you  in  the  false  ideas  of  my  state  that  were  necessary 


34°  Illness. 

for  my  mother's  sake — so  that  you  may  not  be  too  much 
shocked  in  case  of  my  death.  That,  however,  will  not,  I  hope, 
occur  soon,  and  I  may  drag  on  thus  for  a  dozen  years,  God 
help  me  !  For  a  fortnight  I  have  been  so  paralyzed  that  I  am 
carried  about  like  a  child,  and  my  legs  are  like  cotton  wool. 
My  eyes  terribly  bad.  But  my  heart  is  all  right,  and  my  brain 
and  stomach  are  sound.  Am  well  cared  for,  and  rich  enough 
to  stand  heavier  expenses  of  illness. 


A    RECTIFICATION. 

PARIS,  April  15,  1849. 

Some  German  papers  .  .  .  have  put  in  circulation  stories 
about  the  state  of  my  health  and  my  financial  circumstances 
which  need  correction.  I  leave  out  of  the  question  whether  the 
right  name  has  been  given  to  my  disease,  whether  it  is  a  family 
disease  (a  disease  derived  from  the  family)  or  one  of  those 
individual  diseases  from  which  Germans  suffer  who  live 
abroad,  whether  it  is  the  French  "  ramolissement  de  la  moelle 
e"piniere,"  or  a  German  "  Riickgratschwindtsucht  "  ;  but  this 
I  know,  it  is  a  horrible  disease  which  tortures  me  day  and 
night,  and  has  greatly  shaken  not  only  my  nervous  system 
but  my  intellectual  system.  Very  often,  especially  during 
severe  convulsions  of  the  vertebral  column,  a  doubt  comes 
over  me  whether  man  is  indeed  a  two-legged  god,  as  the  late 
Professor  Hegel  assured  me  in  Berlin  twenty-five  years  ago. 
In  May  of  last  year  I  had  to  take  to  my  bed,  and  I  have  never 
risen  from  it  since.  In  the  meanwhile  I  confess  that  a  great 
revolution  has  taken  place  in  me.  I  am  no  longer  a  godlike 
biped  ;  I  am  no  longer  "  the  freest  German  since  Goethe,"  as 
Ruge  called  me  in  better  days  ;  I  am  no  longer  the  Great 
Pagan  No.  II.,  who  was  likened  to  the  vine-crowned  Bacchus, 
while  men  called  my  colleague  No.  I.  the  Grand-ducal  Jupi- 
ter of  Weimar  ;  I  am  no  longer  a  comfortably  stout  Hellene, 
rejoicing  in  life,  gayly  looking  down  with  a  smile  on  the  serious 
Nazarenes — I  am  now  only  a  poor,  dying  Jew,  a  wasted  figure 
of  woe,  a  wretched  being  !  So  much  for  my  state  of  health, 
from  the  fountain  head  of  torture.  As  to  my  pecuniary  affairs, 
I  confess  they  are  not  remarkably  brilliant ;  but  the  reporters 
of  the  newspapers  overrate  my  poverty,  and  are  possessed 
with  a  very  erroneous  notion  when  they  speak  as  if  my  con- 
dition had  been  made  worse  since  the  death  of  my  uncle  Salo- 


*A  Sop  for  Karl.  341 

mon  Heine  by  the  withdrawal  or  diminishing  of  the  allow- 
ance that  I  received  from  him.  I  will  not  enter  into  the 
causes  of  this  error,  and  will  avoid  a  discussion  which  would 
be  equally  painful  to  me  and  tedious  to  others.  But  I  must 
distinctly  contradict  the  error  itself,  lest  silence  should  annoy 
friends  at  home  on  the  one  hand,  and,  on  the  other,  give  a 
chance  for  calumny,  that  would  affect  the  noblest  feelings  that 
were  ever  proudly  locked  within  a  human  bosom.  In  spite  of 
my  dislike  to  entering  on  personal  topics,  I  think  it  proper 
to  state  the  following  facts.  The  allowance  in  question  has 
not,  since  the  death  of  my  uncle  Salomon  Heine  of  worthy 
memory,  been  withdrawn  or  cut  down,  and  has  been  punctu- 
ally paid,  to  the  last  penny.  Since  my  health  grew  worse  the 
relative  who  is  charged  with  this  payment  has  sent  me 
quarterly  an  additional  sum,  thus  nearly  doubling  the  amount 
of  the  original  allowance.  The  same  relative  has  banished 
from  my  sick  bed  the  bitterest  of  my  cares  by  a  further  gener- 
ous stipulation  in  favor  of  the  dear  wife  who  devotes  herself 
to  my  earthly  comforts.  Many  offers  and  inquiries  sent  from 
my  native  place  in  kindness,  but  through  error,  will  find  a  reply 
in  the  above  statement.  Greetings  and  tears  to  the  hearts 
that  are  bleeding  to  death  in  the  fatherland  ! 


PARIS,  April  30,  1849. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 

You  have  no  idea  of  the  horrible  amount  of  money  my  illness 
devours.  And  I  do  not  know  how  long  this  may  last  !  Never 
have  the  gods,  or  a  good  God  (as  I  now  say),  punished  a  man 
more  cruelly.  But  two  consolations  are  left  me,  and  sit  by 
my  bed  to  comfort  me  :  my  French  housewife,  and  the  German 
Muse.  I  string  together  a  great  many  verses,  some  of  which 
still  my  pains  like  a  spell,  when  I  mutter  them  to  myself.  A 
poet  is,  and  always  will  be,  a  fool. 

JUNE  i,  1850. 

At  a  time  when  great  revolutions  were  taking  place  in  the 
outer  world,  and  remarkable  changes  in  my  inward  world  of 
thought,  I  should  have  promptly  given  to  the  public  whatever 
I  had  written,  not  because  it  would  otherwise  become  less 
valuable  to  the  public,  but  because  I  cannot  now  publish  it  of 
my  own  accord  without  committing  a  sin  against  the  Holy 
Ghost  and  violence  to  my  own  convictions — or,  at  least,  taking 


342  Illness. 

an  equivocal  step.  I  have  not  become  one  of  the  godly,  but  I 
will  not  play  tricks  with  God  ;  I  will  deal  fairly  with  him  as 
well  as  with  men  ;  and  from  the  writings  of  my  earlier  blas- 
phemous days  I  have  resolutely  thrown  out  the  brightest  pois- 
onous flowers ;  and,  in  the  bad  state  of  my  eyes,  I  may  very 
likely  have  thrown  into  the  fire  some  harmless  door-side  plants. 
I  own  that  I  felt  very  badly  as  they  crackled  in  the  flames.  I 
was  not  sure  whether  I  was  a  hero  or  a  fool  ;  and  could  hear 
Mephistopheles  whispering  ironical  consolations  :  "  God  will 
pay  you  better  for  them  than  Campe ;  and  you  will  not  have 
to  fuss  over  the  printing,  or  chaffer  with  Campe  about  the 
printing  as  if  over  a  pair  of  old  breeches."  Ah,  my  dear 
Campe,  I  often  wish  you  believed  in  God,  if  only  for  one  day  ; 
your  conscience  would  then  be  troubled  at  the  ingratitude  you 
show  me  at  a  time  when  I  am  overwhelmed  with  such  terrible 
and  unheard  of  misfortunes.  Send  me  an  answer  soon,  before 
it  is  too  late.  If  your  negligence  in  writing  comes  from  polit- 
ical doubts  or  mercantile  considerations,  say  so  frankly,  and  I 
will  leave  proper  directions  behind  me,  in  case  I  should  leave 
all  earthly  things  before  the  publication  of  the  complete 
edition  of  my  works  begins.  Do  not  be  alarmed  at  the  phrase 
"  leave  all  earthly  things  ";  I  do  not  mean  it  piously,  nor  that 
I  shall  exchange  earthly  things  for  heavenly  ;  for,  however 
near  I  am  drawing  to  God,  heaven  seems  pretty  far  off.  Do 
not  believe  the  current  reports  that  I  am  become  a  lamb  of 
the  fold.  The  religious  revolution  within  me  is  wholly  intel- 
lectual, an  affair  of  the  mind  rather  than  a  blessed  experience, 
and  my  illness  has  little  to  do  with  it,  I  am  convinced.  Great, 
lofty,  terrible  thoughts  come  over  me  ;  but  they  are  thoughts, 
flashes  of  light,  and  not  the  phosphoric  gleams  of  remorse  and 
faith.  I  tell  you  this  principally  in  order  that,  if  I  look  after 
the  complete  edition  myself,  you  may  not  fancy  that  I  shall 
feel  bound  to  cancel  anything.  Quod  scrtpsi,  scripsi. 


PARIS,  April  21,  1851. 
To  Gtistav  Kolb : 

It  is  an  eternity  since  I  have  had  any  news  of  you  ;  and  I 
have  always  had  an  idea  in  my  head  that,  thanks  to  the  rail- 
road, you  would  be  standing  by  my  bed  early  some  morning. 
I  am  still  bedridden,  and  lie  all  the  time  on  my  lame  back,  in 
which  horrible  cramps  run  riot ;  and  all  that  is  said  in  public 
of  my  illness  is  nothing  compared  with  my  real  suffering. 


{Monotheism.  343 


And  I  bear  it  all  with  religious  patience.  I  say  religious,  for 
I  cannot  deny  what  is  said  of  my  present  belief  in  God.  But 
on  this  point  I  must  assure  you  that  there  is  much  exaggera- 
tion, and  that  I  do  not  in  the  least  belong  to  the  so-called 
pious  souls.  The  fact  is  that  I  have  long  felt  a  great  antip- 
athy to  German  atheism,  have  long  cherished  a  firmer  con- 
viction of  God's  existence,  and  wanted  to  defer  the  declaration 
of  it  for  a  while,  possibly  with  the  idea  of  giving  God  a  surprise. 
Certain  unauthorized  gobemouches  seized  upon  some  cursory 
expressions  of  mine  to  give  me  a  very  foolish  reputation.  I 
smelt  the  designs  of  certain  people,  who  would  have  been 
glad  to  canonize  me  as  a  rich  morsel  for  their  heaven  ;  I  have 
taken  care  that  my  so-called  conversion  should  not  give  the 
consignors  an  indigestion. 

[E.]  [TO  HIS  MOTHER.] 

PARIS,  March  15,  1850. 

Dearest  Mother :  The  worst  of  my  illness  is  that  one  lives 
so  long  with  it,  which  you,  dearest  mother,  will  not  think  the 
worst  thing  ;  but  I,  who  suffer  so  and  have  lost  all  hope  of 
getting  well,  envy  those  who  are  carried  off  by  some  acute 
attack.  The  only  terrible  thing  about  death  is  that  we  plunge 
those  we  love  into  grief.  How  gladly  I  would  leave  this 
world  but  for  the  thought  of  my  little  spendthrift's  helpless- 
ness, and  of  the  sorrow  of  the  old  woman  who  lives  near  the 
Dammthor,  and  my  sister's  tears. 


CHAPTER  II. 
IRomansero." 

I  HAVE  called  this  book  the  "  Romanzero,"  because  a  tone 
of  romance  prevails  in  the  poems  here  collected.  With  few 
exceptions,  I  have  written  them  within  the  last  three  years, 
under  great  bodily  difficulty  and  pain.  At  the  same  time 
with  the  "  Romanzero,"  and  through  the  same  publisher,  I 
give  to  the  world  a  little  book,  the  title  of  which  is  "  Doctor 
Faust,"  a  dance  poem,  with  curious  observations  on  the  devil, 
witches,  and  the  art  of  poetry.  I  offer  it  to  the  worthy  public, 
who  will  be  glad  to  learn  something  about  these  things  without 
much  labor  ;  it  is  a  bit  of  filigree  work,  over  which  many  a 
blacksmith  will,  no  doubt,  shake  his  head.  My  first  intention 
was  to  incorporate  this  book  with  the  "  Romanzero  ";  but  I 
abandoned  it  in  order  not  to  disturb  the  unity  of  tone  that 
prevails  in  this  and  gives  it  color.  I  wrote  this  dance  poem 
in  1847,  at  a  time  when  my  illness  had  made  some  progress, 
but  had  not  yet  cast  a  shadow  over  my  humor.  I  had  some- 
thing of  the  flesh  and  of  paganism  in  me,  and  had  not  dried 
away  to  a  spiritual  skeleton  waiting  for  its  dissolution.  But 
do  I  really  still  exist  ?  My  body  is  so  shrunken  away  that 
hardly  anything  but  my  voice  is  left  ;  and  my  bed  reminds  me 
of  the  sounding  grave  of  the  enchanter  Merlin,  in  the  Broceli- 
ande  forest  in  Brittany,  under  the  tall  oaks  whose  tops  rise 
like  green  flames  into  heaven.  Ah,  friend  Merlin,  I  envy  you 
those  trees  with  their  cool  breezes  ;  for  no  green  leaf  flutters 
over  my  mattress-grave  in  Paris,  where  I  hear  nothing,  early 
and  late,  but  the  rattle  of  carriages,  hammering,  scolding, 
and  piano  jingling.  A  grave  without  rest,  death  without  the 
advantages  of  the  dead,  who  do  not  have  to  pay  money,  write 
letters  or  books.  It  is  a  hard  lot.  I  have  long  ago  been 
measured  for  my  coffin  and  my  obituary  ;  but  I  die  so  slowly 
that  I  shall  be  as  tired  of  waiting  for  them  as  my  friends  will. 
Patience  ;  everything  has  an  end.  Some  morning  you  will 
find  the  booth  shut  up  where  my  humorous  puppet  show  used 
to  disport  itself.  .  . 

344 


<Monotbeism.  345 


When  a  man  is  lying  on  his  deathbed  he  gets  sentimental 
and  weak-minded,  and  must  make  his  peace  with  God  and 
the  world.  I  confess  that  I  have  scratched,  bitten,  and  been 
no  lamb,  but,  believe  me,  those  lambs  of  mildness  would  have 
borne  themselves  less  gently  if  they  had  tiger's  teeth  and 
claws.  I  can  say  for  myself  that  I  have  only  occasionally 
used  the  weapons  I  was  born  with.  Since  I  have  felt  the  need 
of  God's  mercy  I  have  pardoned  all  my  enemies  ;  many  fine 
poems  directed  against  very  high  and  very  low  people  are, 
therefore,  not  included  in  this  collection.  Poems  that  were 
in  any  way  aggressive  toward  God  himself  I  have  hastened  to 
commit  to  the  flames.  Better  the  poems  should  burn  than 
their  author.  Yes,  I  have  made  peace  with  the  Creator,  as 
well  as  the  created,  to  the  great  indignation  of  my  enlight- 
ened friends,  who  reproach  me  for  thus  failing  back  into  the 
old  superstition,  as  they  like  to  call  my  coming  home  to  God. 
A  homesickness  for  heaven  came  over  me,  and  drove  me  on 
through  forests  and  gulfs,  along  the  giddy  paths  of  dialectics. 
On  the  way  I  found  the  God  of  the  pantheists  ;  but  I  had  no 
use  for  hUn  ;  for  he  is,  in  truth,  no  God,  and  the  pantheists 
are  shamefaced  atheists — fearing  the  thing  less  than  the 
shadow  it  casts  on  the  wall,  the  name.  Moreover,  most  of 
them  in  Germany  in  the  time  of  the  Restoration  played  for 
fifteen  years  the  same  farce  with  God  that  was  played  here  in 
France  by  the  constitutional  Royalists,  who  were  mostly 
Republicans  at  heart.  After  the  July  Revolution  the  mask  was 
dropped  on  both  sides  of  the  Rhine. 

The  bolder  the  spirits,  the  easier  was  the  sacrifice  in  such  a 
strait.  For  myself,  I  cannot  boast  of  any  such  political 
progress  ;  I  clung  to  the  same  democratic  principles  that  I 
cherished  in  my  youth,  and  that  have  glowed  within  me  ever 
since.  But  in  religion  I  must  confess  to  a  step  backward,  for 
I  did  revert,  as  I  have  said,  to  the  old  superstition,  to  a  per- 
sonal God.  This  is  not  to  be  concealed,  as  many  enlight- 
ened and  well-meaning  friends  have  attempted.  But  I  must 
distinctly  contradict  the  report  that  my  return  has  ever  led 
me  to  the  threshold  of  any  Church  or  into  its  bosom.  No, 
my  religious  persuasions  and  views  have  remained  free  from 
all  connection  with  the  Church ;  no  bells  allured  me,  no 
candles  blinded  my  eyes.  I  have  not  toyed  with  any  symbols, 
nor  renounced  my  right  to  reason  ;  I  have  foresworn  nothing, 
not  even  my  old  heathen  gods,  from  whom  I  have  indeed 
wandered — parting,  however,  in  love  and  friendship.  It  was 


346  The 


in  May,  1848,  on  the  day  when  I  went  out  for  the  last  time, 
that  I  bade  farewell  to  the  sacred  idols  whom  I  worshiped 
in  my  days  of  good  fortune.  I  dragged  myself  painfully  as 
far  as  the  Louvre,  and  nearly  dropped  exhausted  as  I  trod  the 
lofty  room  where  the  blessed  goddess  of  beauty,  the  beloved 
woman  of  Melos,  stands  on  her  pedestal.  I  lay  a  long  time 
at  her  feet,  and  wept  so  bitterly  that  it  would  have  moved 
a  stone.  The  goddess  looked  kindly  down  on  me,  but  hope- 
lessly, as  if  she  would  have  said,  "  Dost  thou  not  see  I  have 
no  arms,  and  cannot  help  thee  ?  "  .  .  . 

I  stop  here,  for  I  am  falling  into  a  melancholy  tone  that 
might  get  the  upper  hand  of  me,  when  I  remember,  dear 
reader,  that  I  must  bid  thee,  too,  farewell.  A  certain  emotion 
comes  over  me  at  the  thought,  and  I  grieve  to  part  from  thee. 
An  author  grows  familiar  with  his  audience,  as  though  it  were 
a  reasoning  being.  Thou,  too,  seemest  sad  that  I  must  leave 
thee  ;  thou  art  moved,  dearest  reader,  and  precious  pearls 
flow  from  thy  lachrymal  glands.  Comfort  thyself  ;  we 
shall  meet  again  in  a  better  world,  where  I  mean  to  write 
better  books. 

How  our  soul  rebels  at  the  thought  of  the  extinction  of 
our  personality,  eternal  annihilation  !  The  horror  vacui  that 
men  attributed  to  nature  is  rather  innate  in  men's  souls. 
Be  comforted,  dear  reader  ;  there  is  an  existence  after  death. 

And  now,  farewell  ;  and,  if  I  owe  thee  anything  pray 
send  me  the  bill. 


[Written  in  PARIS,  September  30,  1851.] 
The  day  will  surely  come  ;  the  fire  in  my  veins  is  quenched  ; 
winter  dwells  in  my  bosom  ;  its  white  flakes  lie  thin  upon  my 
head,  and  its  mists  dim  my  eyes.  My  friends  lie  in  their  mol- 
dering  graves  ;  I  alone  am  left,  like  a  lonely  blade,  forgotten 
by  the  reaper.  A  new  generation  has  blossomed,  with  new 
desires  and  new  thoughts  ;  I  wonder  as  I  hear  new  names 
and  new  songs.  The  old  names  have  perished,  and  I,  too, 
have  perished — still,  it  may  be,  honored  by  a  few,  scoffed  at 
by  many,  beloved  by  none  !  But  rosy  cheeked  boys  spring  up, 
and  place  the  old  lyre  in  my  trembling  hand,  and,  laughing, 
say  :  "  Thou  hast  been  long  silent,  thou  lazy  gray-head — sing 
us  more  songs  of  the  dreams  of  thy  youth." 

Then  I  seize  the  lyre,  and  the  old  joys  and  sorrows  avake  : 
the  clouds  roll  away  ;  tears  bloom  again  in  my  dead  eyes  ;  it 


To  the  Angels.  347 

is  spring  once  more  within  my  bosom.  Sweet,  sad  tones 
thrill  through  the  harp  strings  ;  again  I  see  the  blue  stream, 
the  marble  palaces,  and  the  lovely  faces  of  women  and 
maidens — and  I  sing  a  song  of  the  flowers  of  the  Brenta. 

It  shall  be  my  last  song ;  the  stars  will  look  on  me  as  in  the 
nights  of  my  youth  ;  the  beloved  moonlight  again  kisses  my 
cheek ;  a  spirit  chorus  of  departed  nightingales  floats  from 
afar ;  my  eyes  close,  drunk  with  sleep ;  my  soul  echoes  the 
tones  of  my  harp  ;  the  scent  of  the  flowers  of  the  Brenta  is 
heavy. 

A  tree  shall  overshadow  my  gravestone.  I  would  it  might 
be  a  palm  ;  but  they  grow  not  in  the  North.  It  may  be  a 
linden  ;  and  in  the  summer  evenings  lovers  will  sit  there  and 
whisper.  The  finch  listens  as  he  rocks  in  the  branches  and 
is  silent  ;  and  my  linden  murmurs  sadly  above  the  heads  of  the 
happy  ones,  who  are  so  happy  that  they  have  no  time  to  read 
what  is  written  on  the  white  gravestone.  Later,  when  the 
lover  has  lost  his  maid,  he  will  come  back  to  the  well-known 
linden,  and  look  long  and  often  on  the  gravestone,  and  read 
the  words:  "  He  loved  the  flowers  of  the  Brenta." 


TO    THE    ANGELS. 

This  is  the  cruel  Thanatos  ; 

On  a  pale  horse  he  rides  ; 

I  hear  the  trampling  of  his  hoofs  ; 

The  shadowy  rider  seizes  me. 

He  bears  me  onward.     I  must  leave  Mathilde — 

Ah  !  'tis  a  thought  my  heart  cannot  endure  ! 

She  was  at  once  my  wife  and  child  ; 

And  if  I  seek  the  realms  of  shade 

She  will  a  widow  and  an  orphan  be  ! 

I  leave  behind  me  in  the  world,  alone, 

The  wife,  the  child,  that  trusted  in  my  strength, 

And  rested  true  and  careless  on  my  heart. 

Ye  angels  in  the  heights  of  heaven, 
Give  ear  unto  my  sighs  and  groans  ; 
Protect,  when  I  am  in  my  lonely  grave, 


348  The  "  Ifyman^ero. ' ' 

The  wife  that  I  have  loved  so  well  ; 

Guard  her,  defend  your  image  sweet, 

Protect  and  shield  my  helpless  child  Mathilde. 

By  all  the  tears  that  ever  from  your  eyes 

You  have  let  fall  for  mortal  agony, 

By  that  great  word  the  priest  alone  doth  know 

And  shudders  as  he  breathes, 

By  your  own  beauty,  kindness,  love, 

I  charge  ye,  O  ye  angels,  guard  Mathilde. 


A    FORLORN    HOPE. 

For  thirty  years  I  faithfully  held 
Desperate  posts  in  the  battle  for  freedom. 
1  fought  without  hope  of  victory  ; 
I  knew  I  should  never  come  back  alive. 

I  watched  day  and  night ;  I  could  not  sleep 
Like  my  band  of  friends  within  the  tent — 
(And  the  loud  snores  of  the  brave  fellows 
Kept  me  awake,  if  I  grew  somewhat  sleepy). 

In  these  nights  I  often  felt  ennui, 
Arid  fear  besides  (fools  only  know  no  fear), 
And  to  drive  these  away,  in  satirical  vein 
My  saucy  rhymes  I  boldly  used  to  pipe. 

Yes,  I  stood  watchful,  gun  in  hand  ; 
And  if  any  contemptible  fool  drew  near, 
I  shot  true,  and  gave  him  a  warm 
Bullet  for  supper  in  his  vile  carcase. 

Sometimes  indeed  it  well  might  be 
That  such  a  wretched  fool  right  well 
Could  shoot.     Ah,  I  cannot  deny  it — 
The  wounds  gape — my  blood  is  streaming. 

One  post  is  vacant.     The  wounds  gape — 
One  falls,  the  others  close  up — 
But  I  fall  unconquered,  and  my  weapons 
Are  unbroken— only  my  heart  is  broken. 


CHAPTER  III. 


PARIS,  August  21,  1851. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 

The  condition  of  my  health,  or  rather  the  state  of  my  illness, 
is  still  the  same.  I  suffer  beyond  measure,  and  really  endure 
Promethean  tortures  through  the  wrath  of  the  gods,  who  are 
angry  with  me  for  giving  to  men  a  few  night  lights  and  penny 
candles.  I  say  "  the  gods,"  for  I  will  not  speak  of  the  good 
God  ;  I  know  his  vultures  now,  and  have  all  due  respect  for 
them.  My  doctor  gives  me  hope  for  this  winter.  If  I  could 
be  moved  you  would  soon  see  me  back  in  Hamburg. 

OCTOBER  15. 

Literary  cares  have  so  filled  my  brain  for  the  last  week 
that  I  quite  forgot  that  this  was  the  day  for  paying  the 
rent  ;  and  when  Mile.  Pauline  searched  in  my  secretary  for 
the  money  that  was  still  on  hand,  I  was  lucky  enough  to 
find  it  was  more  than  the  rent,  and  that  I  had  thirty-three 
sous  left  over.  Now  let  any  man  tell  me  I  am  no  poet  ! 

PARIS,  November  5,  1851. 
To  Georg  Weerth  : 

I  hope  my  "  Romanzero,"  but  especially  my  "  Faust,"  will 
please  you.  God  knows  I  set  no  great  value  on  these  books 
and  that  they  would  not  so  soon  have  seen  the  light  of  day 
had  not  Campe  put  on  the  thumbscrews.  I  am  quite  ignorant 
of  the  fate  of  my  books,  since  Campe,  now  that  he  has  got  all 
he  wants,  sends  me  no  news.  If  this  letter  finds  you  in  Ham- 
burg perhaps  I  shall  learn  something  from  you,  if  you  favor 
me  with  answer. 

I  am  so  stupefied  by  the  opium  I  have  taken  in  repeated 
doses  to  dull  my  pain  that  I  hardly  know  what  I  am  dictating. 
It  arises  from  the  fact  that  this  morning  a  stupid  fellow- 
countryman  came,  and  in  a  long  and  tiresome  talk  exchanged 
ideas  with  me  ;  by  this  exchange  I  may  have  got  his  stupid 

349 


35o  Tbe  Witt. 

ideas  into  my  head,  and  may  need  several  days  to  clear  them 
out,  and  get  hold  of  any  sensible  thoughts. 

What  a  terrible  thing  exile  is  !  Among  its  worst  annoy- 
ances is  this  :  that  we  fall  into  bad  company  which  we 
cannot  avoid,  unless  we  want  to  encourage  a  conspiracy  of  all 
the  rascals.  . 


Before  the  undersigned  notaries  of  Paris,  MM, ,  and  in 

presence  of  etc.,  etc., 

And  in  the  bedchamber  of  the  hereinafter  named  H.  Heine, 
situate  on  the  second  story  of  a  house  No.  50  Rue  Amster- 
dam ;  in  which  chamber,  which  is  lighted  by  a  window 
giving  on  the  court,  the  above  named  notaries  and  wit- 
nesses were  assembled  at  his  express  desire,  appeared 

Herr  Heinrich  Heine,  author  and  doctor  of  laws,  domiciled 
in  Paris,  Rue  Amsterdam,  No.  50  ;  who,  sick  in  body,  but  of 
sound  mind,  understanding,  and  memory,  and  in  the  anticipa- 
tion of  death,  dictated  to,  etc.,  his  last  Will,  as  follows  : 

1.  I  appoint  as  my  sole    heir  Mathilde  Crescence  Heine, 
born  Mirat,  my  lawful  wife,  with  whom  I  have  for  many  years 
shared  good  and  evil  days,  and  who  has  nursed  me  throughout 
my  long  and  terrible  illness.     I  leave  to  her  all  my  property 
whatsoever,  present  or  to  be  hereafter  acquired,  free  from  con- 
ditions or  restrictions. 

2.  At  a  time  when  I  looked  for  a  prosperous  future  I  sur- 
rendered all   my  literary  property  on  very  moderate  condi- 
tions ;  unfortunate  circumstances  have  since  swallowed  up  the 
means  that  I  possessed  ;  and  my  illness  does  not  allow  me  to 
make   any  better  provision   for  my  wife.     The  allowance  I 
received  from  my  late  uncle  Salomon  Heine,  and  which  was 
always   the  principal    source  of  my  income,  is  only  partially 
secured  to  my  wife  ;  this  was  my  own  wish.     lam  greatly  con- 
cerned not  to  provide  better  for  my  wife  after  my  death.     The 
above  mentioned  allowance  represented  the  interest  of  a  sum, 
which  my  fatherly  benefactor  did  not  like  to  place  in  my  unbusi- 
nesslike poet  hands,  that  I  might  thus  be  more  secure  of  a 
lasting  enjoyment  of  it.     I  reckoned  on  this  fixed  income  when 
I  joined  to  my  fate  one  whom  my  uncle  loved,  and  to  whom 
he  had  shown  many  proofs  of  affection.     Although  he  did  not 
in  his  will    make  any  formal    provision    for  her,  it  is  to  be 
assumed  that  the  omission  is  to  be  ascribed  rather  to  an  nnfor- 


Allowance  to  ZMatbilde.  35 1 

tunate  accident  than  to  the  feelings  of  the  deceased.  He 
whose  liberality  had  benefited  many  who  were  strangers  to 
his  family  and  his  heart,  could  not  be  guilty  of  mean  penu- 
riousness  in  the  case  of  the  wife  of  a  nephew  who  had  made 
his  name  famous.  The  slightest  sign  or  word  of  a  man  who 
was  generosity  itself  should  be  generously  interpreted.  My 
cousin  Karl  Heine,  the  worthy  son  of  his  father,  shared  this 
feeling  with  me,  and  with  noble  alacrity  acceded  to  my  request 
formally  to  undertake  to  pay  one-half  of  the  allowance,  after 
my  death,  to  my  wife  during  her  life.  This  agreement  was 
made  on  the  25th  of  February,  1847  '•>  and  I  am  still  moved 
by  the  recollection  of  the  reproach  which  my  cousin  made  me, 
in  spite  of  the  differences  existing  between  us,  for  my  little 
trust  in  his  intentions  toward  my  wife ;  when  he  gave  me  his 
hand  in  token  of  his  promise,  I  put  it  to  my  poor  failing  eyes 
and  bedewed  it  with  my  tears.  Since  then  my  condition  has 
grown  worse,  and  my  illness  has  drained  many  resources  which 
I  could  have  left  to  my  wife.  These  unforeseen  events  and 
other  weighty  reasons  induce  me  to  appeal  again  to  the  honor- 
able good  feeling  of  my  cousin  ;  I  earnestly  beg  him  not  to 
diminish  by  a  half  the  allowance  that  he  transfers  to  my  wife 
after  my  death,  but  to  pay  it  to  her  in  full,  as  I  received  it 
during  my  uncle's  life.  I  say  distinctly  "as  I  received  it 
during  my  uncle's  life,"  because  my  cousin  Karl  Heine,  for 
nearly  five  years  since  my  illness  has  increased,  has  actually 
more  than  doubled  my  allowance,  for  which  noble  attention  I 
owe  him  great  gratitude.  It  is  more  than  probable  that  I  need 
not  make  this  appeal  to  my  cousin's  liberality  ;  for  I  am  sure 
that,  when  he  casts  the  first  spadeful  of  earth  on  my  coffin 
as  my  nearest  relation,  if  he  is  in  Paris  at  my  death,  he  will 
forget  all  my  painful  reproaches,  which  I  regret  and  have 
atoned  for  on  my  lingering  deathbed  ;  he  will  then  remember 
only  our  former  hearty  friendship,  our  relationship  and  common 
feelings,  which  united  us  from  our  early  youth,  and  will  extend 
a  fatherly  protection  to  his  friend's  widow.  But  it  is  well  for 
the  peace  of  both  that  the  living  should  know  what  the  dead 
desire  of  them. 

3.  I  desire  that  after  my  death  all  my  papers  and  packets 
of  letters  be  carefully  locked  up,  and  held  at  the  disposition 
of  my  nephew  Ludwig  von  Embden,  to  whom  I  shall  send  my 
further  instructions  as  to  the  use  he  is  to  make  of  them,  with- 
out prejudice  to  the  right  of  property  in  them  of  my  wife  as 
my  sole  heir. 


352  The  Witt. 

4.  If  I  die  before  the   publication  of  my  complete  works, 
and  have  not  been  able  to  attend  to  this  publication,  or  if  my 
death  occurs  before  this  publication  is  completed,  I  beg  my 
relative  Dr.  Rudolf  Christiani  to  superintend  the  publication 
in  my  place,  strictly  following  the  plan  which  I  shall  leave  to 
him  for  the  purpose.     If  my  friend  Herr  Campe,  the  publisher 
of  my  works,  shall  desire  any  change  in  the  form  or  manner 
in  which  I  have  arranged  the  various  works  in  said  directions, 
I  wish  no  difficulties  placed  in  his  way  in  the  matter,  as  I  have 
always  gladly   consulted    his   business  interests.     The  great 
point  is  that  no  line  be  inserted  in  my  writings  which  I  have 
not   expressly  designed  for  publication,   or  which  has  been 
published  without  my  full  name  ;    no  fictitious  signature  is 
good  ground  for  attributing  to  me  any  article  which  may  have 
been  published  in  a  newspaper,  as  the  designation  of  authors 
by  a  signature  is  the  work  of  the  chief  editor,  who  never 
hesitates  to  change  an  article  so  signed  in  matter  or  form.     I 
distinctly  forbid    that   anything,  however    trifling,  that    was 
written  by  another  should  be  added  to  my  work — unless  it  be 
a  biographical  notice  from  the  pen  of  one  of  my  old   friends 
whom  I  have  charged  with  the  task.     I  presume  that  my  wish 
in  this  matter,  viz.,  that  my  books  may  not  be  made  to  take 
in  tow  the  writings  of  others,  will  be  loyally  followed  to  the 
fullest  extent. 

5.  I   forbid  any  autopsy  to  be  made  of  my  body  after  my 
death  ;  but  as  my  disease  often  assumes  a  cataleptic  form,  I 
think  the   precaution  should  be  taken  to  divide  one  of  the 
arteries. 

6.  Should  I  die  in  Paris,  and  reside  at  not  too  great  a  dis- 
tance from  Montmartre,  I  desire  to  be  buried  in  the  cemetery 
of  that  name,  as  I  cherish  a  fondness  for  that  quarter,  in  which 
I  have  dwelt  for  many  years. 

7.  I   request  that  my  funeral  ceremonies  be  as  simple  as 
possible,  and  that  the  cost  of  my  burial  do  not  exceed  that  of 
the  most  humble  citizen.    Although  I  belong  by  baptism  to  the 
Lutheran  sect,  I  do  not  desire  that  the  clergy  of  that  Church 
be  charged  with  my  burial  ;  I  likewise  renounce  the  services 
of  any  other  priestly  order  in  solemnizing  my  funeral.     This 
desire  springs  from   no  leaning  to  freethinking.      For  four 
years  I  have  laid  aside  all   philosophic  pride,  and   have  come 
back  to  religious  ideas  and  feelings  ;  I  die  in  the  belief  in  one 
God,  the  everlasting  creator   of  the   world,  whose   mercy  I 
implore  for  my  eternal  soul.     I  regret  that  in  my  writings  I 


Last  Wishes.  353 


have  sometimes  spoken  of  sacred  things  without  the  rever- 
ence due  to  them  ;  but  I  was  led  rather  by  the  spirit  of  my 
times  than  by  my  own  inclination.  If  I  have  unknowingly 
offended  against  good  customs  and  morals,  which  are  the 
essence  of  all  monotheistic  belief,  I  ask  the  forgiveness  of  God 
and  men.  I  forbid  any  address,  either  in  French  or  German, 
to  be  made  at  my  grave.  At  the  same  time  I  express  the  wish 
that  my  countrymen,  however  happily  the  circumstances  of  my 
native  land  may  be  established,  will  abstain  from  carrying  my 
ashes  to  Germany ;  I  have  never  liked  to  take  a  personal  part 
in  any  political  buffoonery.  It  has  been  the  great  work  of  my 
life  to  labor  for  a  heartfelt  understanding  between  Germany 
and  France,  and  to  oppose  those  enemies  of  democracy  who 
turn  to  their  own  advantage  the  prejudices  and  animosities 
of  the  two  nations.  I  think  I  have  deserved  well  of  my 
countrymen  and  the  French,  and  my  claims  to  their 
gratitude  are  certainly  the  best  legacy  I  can  leave  to  my 
sole  heir. 

8.  I  appoint  M.  Maxime  Joubert,  councilor  of  the  Court 
of  Cassation,  as  my  executor,  and  thank  him  for  his  kind 
acceptance  of  the  office. 

The  foregoing  testament  was  dictated  by  Herr  Heinrich 
Heine,  and  written  by  the  hand  of  etc.,  etc. 

And  after  it  had  been  read  to  the  testator,  in  the  presence 
of  the  same  persons,  he  declared  that  he  confirmed  it  as  the 
exact  expression  of  his  will. 

Done  and  completed  at  Paris,  in  the  bedroom  of  the  said 
Herr  Heine, 

In  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  fifty-one,  on  Thursday,  the 
i5th  of  November,  about  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 


PARIS,  March  i,  1852. 
To  Alfred  Meissner : 

It  is  inconceivable  to  me  that  I  was  able  to  write  the 
"  Romanzero  "  in  the  midst  of  my  severest  sufferings.  You 
are  right  in  saying  that  in  the  memory  of  booksellers  no  book, 
certainly  no  collection  of  poems,  has  had  such  success  on  its 
publication.  Two  months  from  its  publication  the  fourth 
edition  (and  that  a  stereotyped  one)  was  out  of  print ;  and 
Campe  tells  me  he  never  prints  less  than  from  five  to  six 
thousand  copies  of  each  edition. 


354  The  Will. 

PARIS,  April  6,  1852. 
To  Julius  Campe  ; 

The  most  consoling  proofs  of  sympathy  come  to  me  every 
day  from  Germany  ;  all  would  gladly  help  me,  but  no  one  can 
do  that ;  I  am  going,  or  rather  am  lying,  quietly  to  my  grave. 
To-day  I  made  a  lucky  discovery  among  my  papers,  of  which 
I  will  speak  in  my  next. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ttbe  "Confessions." 

PARIS,  June  7,  1852. 
To  Julius  Campe : 

A  book  is  shaping  itself  in  my  mind,  which  will  be  the  flower 
and  fruit  of  my  investigations  during  a  quarter  of  a  century 
in  Paris,  and  which  will  keep  its  place  in  German  literature,  if 
not  as  history,  certainly  as  a  chrestomathy  of  good  publicistic 
prose.  Friends  have  long  been  assuring  me  that  people 
want  some  prose  from  me  after  the  "  Romanzero,"  and  I  hope, 
with  God's  help,  to  supply  the  want.  I  am  favored  in  this  by 
some  remarkable  circumstances.  I  will  very  soon  write  to  you 
positively  on  the  point ;  for  I  have  given  myself  up  to  the 
work  with  real  delight  and  perfect  ease,  and  will,  henceforth, 
put  aside  everything  that  might  in  the  least  disturb  my  mind. 
In  the  sad  state  of  my  health  I  must  take  all  sorts  of  influ- 
ences into  account,  if  I  am  to  devote  myself  to  serious  work. 
But  enough  for  to-day.  I  will  only  say  that  I  yet  hope  to  turn 
out  this  year  two  volumes,  which  will  form  the  conclusion  of 
my  literary  efforts,  and  worthily  complete  my  existing  works. 

I  call  the  book  "  Miscellaneous  Writings  of  Heinrich 
Heine,  in  Two  Volumes." 

The  first  volume  contains  : 

1.  "Confessions" — amounting  to   eight   or  ten   sheets;  a 
thing  that  is  sure  to  please  you,  as  it  forms   an  introduction 
to  my  "  Memoirs,"  which  will,  of  course,  be  written  in  a  more 
popular  and  far  more  graphic  style. 

2.  "Poems" — an  entirely  new  note,  and  among  the  most 
original  things  I  have  written";  about  six  printed  sheets. 

3.  "The  Gods  in  Exile" — collected,  and  forming,  with  a 
postscript  entitled  "The  Goddess  Diana,"  six  sheets  at  most. 

4.  About  two  sheets  on  the  last  political  revolution  and  the 
Empire,  which  I  wanted  to  put  at  the  end  of  the  second  volume, 
but  it  would  make  that  too  thick. 

The  second  volume  of  the  "  Miscellaneous  Writings  "  com- 
prises a  variegated  collection  of  the  best  essays  contributed  to 

355 


35 6  The  "  Confessions. ' ' 

the  Allgemeine  Zeitung,  in  the  short  time  of  the  Thiers  and  the 
beginning  of  the  Guizot  ministries  ;  so  that  I  shall  give 
the  flourishing  period  of  parliamentary  rule  as  one  whole. 
Notices  on  the  fine  arts,  the  theater,  the  salons,  musical  seasons, 
ballrooms,  popular  life,  interspersed  with  many  portraits,  all 
peppered  with  plenty  of  wit,  will  relieve  the  monotony  of  the 
politics  ;  and  a  deal  of  the  material,  new  or  unpublished,  will 
delight  you.  I  call  the  whole  "  Letters  and  Notes  on  the 
Brilliant  Period  of  Parliamentary  Rule."  I  hope  the  book 
will  prove  a  chrestomathy  of  prose,  and  conduce  to  the  forma- 
tion of  a  style  for  popular  subjects.  That  will  be  my  merit 
and  you  will  have  the  profit. 

PARIS,  March  22,  1853. 
To  Gustav  Kolb  : 

The  occasion  of  my  letter  to-day  is  this  :  I  have  under- 
taken a  task  for  the  Revue  des  Duex  Mondes,  of  which  one 
part  will  appear  in  print  on  the  ist  of  April  ;  it  is  called 
"  The  Gods  in  Exile,"  and  is  on  a  favorite  theme  of  mine.  I 
published  one  number  of  the  first  part  in  Germany,  many 
years  ago,  in  my  "  Salon  ";  but  two-thirds  of  this  article  are 
quite  new  ;  and  I  am  seized  with  the  fear  that  some  German 
translator  may  pounce  upon  this  as  soon  as  the  Revue  des 
Deux  Mondes  appears.  So  I  must,  perforce,  have  a  German 
translation  of  the  new  portion  published  at  once  in  Germany. 

I  say  nothing  of  politics,  as  things  are  too  gloomy.  In 
spite  of  my  well-known  views,  I  should  not  dare  to  express 
my  present  ideas  in  the  Allgemeine.  I  am  also  still  in  the 
same  suffering  state,  and  beg  God  every  day  to  grant  me  my 
final  release. 

PARIS,  March  18,  1854. 
To  Alexandre  Dumas  : 

Your  newspaper  announces  that  I  am  just  publishing  a  new 
poem,  and  even  gives  its  title.  The  news  is  false. 

I  have  never  written  a  poem  that  could  have  any  reference 
to  that  title  ;  and  I  beg  you,  my  dear  friend,  to  insert  this 
rectification  in  your  paper. 

I  should  not  be  displeased  if  you  would  have  the  kindness 
to  inform  your  readers  that  I  shall  shortly  bring  out  a  com- 
plete edition  of  my  works,  translated  from  the  German,  partly 
by  myself  and  partly  with  the  help  of  friends. 

A  couple  of  weeks  ago  you  spoke  in  your  paper  of  your  inten- 


Letters.  357 

tion  of  paying  me  a  visit.  It  was  a  good  idea.  But  I  must 
inform  you  that,  if  you  put  it  off  much  longer,  it  may  happen 
you  will  not  find  me  in  my  old  rooms  at  No.  50  Rue  d'Amster- 
dam,  as  I  may  have  moved  to  other  lodgings,  of  which  I 
know  so  little  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  leave  my  address 
with  the  porter,  in  case  any  dilatory  friends  happen  to  come 
and  ask  for  me.  I  have  no  great  notion  about  my  future 
residence  ;  I  only  know  that  one  goes  to  it  through  a  dark, 
foul-smelling  passage,  and  that  I  dislike  the  entrance  before- 
hand ;  my  wife,  too,  weeps  when  I  speak  of  this  change  of 
address. 

Madame  has  a  kind  recollection  of  the  favor  you  showed  to 
us  twelve  or  more  years  ago. 

I  have  been  lying  in  bed  six  years.  In  the  worst  part  of  my 
illness,  when  I  was  suffering  most,  my  wife  read  your  novels 
to  me  ;  and  they  were  the  only  thing  that  could  make  me 
forget  my  pain. 

I  devoured  them  all ;  and  during  the  reading  I  often  cried 
out,  "  What  a  gifted  poet  this  great  child  named  Alexandre 
Dumas  is  ! "  Certainly,  after  Cervantes  and  Mme.  Schariar, 
known  by  the  name  of  Scheherezade,  you  are  the  most  amus- 
ing story-teller  I  know. 

[E.]  [TO  HIS  MOTHER.] 

MAY  7,  1853. 

We  are  in  such  perfect  harmony  that  the  angels  might  envy 
us ;  and  the  kind-souled  creature,  in  whose  heart  there  is  not 
a  drop  of  bad  blood,  and  who  has  taken  no  taint  from  the  evil 
of  the  world,  really  sweetens  my  pain. 

JUNE  i,  1853. 

I  lose  my  head  the  moment  anything  ails  my  wife.  Men 
are  great  fools  !  But  the  greatest  fools  are  those  who  do  not 
love  their  wives  ;  for  they  have  to  spend  just  as  much  for 
them,  and  might  indulge  tender  feelings  for  the  same  money. 

PARIS,  April  8,  1854. 
To  Prince  Hermann  Piickler-Muskau  : 

I  thank  your  Highness  with  all  my  heart  for  the  noble  and 
kind  sympathy  and  care  you  have  shown  for  me.  The  word 
"departure  "  in  your  note  pains  me  to  the  heart  ;  and  it  is  a 
sad  thought  to  me  that  I  have  been  able  to  see  you  here  so 


35 8  The  "  Confessions." 

seldom,  and  shall  certainly  never  see  you  again  in  this  life. 
If  it  be  possible  come  and  see  me  twice  more,  instead  of 
once. 

AUGUST  3,  1854. 
To  Julius  Campe : 

The  poems  are  quite  new,  and  not  old  strains  in  the  old 
style — but  none  but  very  simple  people  and  very  great  critics 
are  fit  to  appreciate  them.  The  "  Confessions  "  also  are  not 
for  everybody  ;  but  they  are  important,  as  they  explain  the 
unity  of  my  works  and  life.  The  "  Lutetia  "  has  an  inherent 
interest,  and  will  be  criticised  as  containing  caricatures  of 
individuals.  Cliquy  mediocrities  may,  however,  spare  their 
kindred  spirits  the  trouble  of  playing  godfather  ;  I  do  not 
belong  to  any  set  of  men  who  uphold  and  crown  each  other 
with  laurels,  and  thus  prevent  the  stoutest  fellows  in  Germany 
from  coming  forward  and  getting  their  deserts.  You  need 
not  therefore  be  surprised  that  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with 
many  people  who  might  be  of  some  present  help  to  my  book, 
but  would  annoy  me  later  with  vexatious  claims  ;  and  you 
may  be  still  less  surprised  if  from  the  same  quarters  my  book 
meets  with  the  same  unfair  treatment  we  have  encountered 
before.  If  a  man  be  but  true  to  himself  he  will  attain  his 
end,  though  it  may  be  somewhat  later. 

SEPTEMBER  21,  1854. 

I  am  at  this  moment  more  ill  than  usual,  and  worried  by 
accidental  circumstances,  arising  partly  from  my  change  of 
abode  and  partly  through  a  death.  My  reader's  mother,  who 
died  of  cholera,  is  to  be  buried  to-day  ;  and  for  a  week  I  have 
missed  my  readings.  On  the  other  hand  I  am  having  a  great 
triumph  ;  for  my  article  in  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  is 
making  a  perfect  furore,  in  spite  of  its  mutilations  ;  and,  as  the 
editor  of  the  Revue  said  to  me  yesterday,  nothing  is  talked 
of  at  this  moment  but  this  article,  and  many  who  understand 
German  are  waiting  anxiously  to  read  the  whole  in  German. 
As  the  editor  of  the  Revue  tells  me,  no  article  ever  made  such 
a  sensation  ;  it  even  far  surpasses  the  success  of  "  The  Gods 
in  Exile." 

PARIS,  October  3,  1854. 
To  J.  H.  Detmold: 

The  old  master,  maimed  and  worn  out,  turns  to-day  to  the 
young  master,  who  must  help  him  with  his  fresh  strength  and 


Letters.  359 

vigorous  mind.  I  hope  Campe  has  already  sent  you  the  three 
volumes  of  my  "  Miscellaneous  Writings  "  that  he  is  just 
publishing,  and  informed  you  of  the  favor  that  I  want  you  to 
do  me  in  the  matter.  In  the  second  and  third  parts,  namely,  the 
book  "  Lutetia,"  you  will  have  seen  what  a  new  trouble  I  have 
undertaken.  Between  ourselves,  I  did  it  at  a  time  when  I 
hoped  to  master  it  through  the  great  means  at  my  command, 
and  the  strength  I  still  felt  in  myself.  But  both  fail  me  just 
now  ;  and  by  a  chapter  of  accidents  I  am  almost  entirely 
isolated,  and  in  a  bodily  condition  so  depressing  and  horrible 
as  I  never  before  endured.  I  get  terribly  entangled  with 
Campe,  and  only  by  a  great  pecuniary  sacrifice  could  I  get 
any  rest  from  his  angry  grumbling.  1  have  a  very  uncertain 
ally  in  him  ;  and  he  drags  me  into  quarrels  that  do  not  con- 
cern me  at  all,  and  speculates  on  sales  through  scandals  which 
I  would  avoid.  I  have  no  one  here  to  tell  me  a  syllable  of 
what  is  going  on  in  the  paper  world,  and  have  no  sort  of  organ 
at  my  disposal  in  it.  I  could  once  make  occasional  use  of 
the  Allgemeine  Zeitung ;  but  now  it  sticks  close  by  the 
infamous  clique  in  Munich  ;  and,  as  you  have  seen  from  my 
book,  I  must  break  with  those  fellows.  You  have  no  idea 
how,  under  the  cloak  of  German  honesty  and  friendliness, 
these  people  hide  the  meanest  perfidy  toward  me.  You  know 
how  Meyerbeer  carries  on  his  fight.  There  is  not  a  journal  in 
the  world  in  which  he  has  not  watchful  spies.  There  is  no 
question,  as  you  see,  dear  Detmold,  of  an  article  in  praise  of 
my  book — but  of  opposing  the  malicious  maneuvers  of  my 
adversaries  by  the  same  means  they  employ — by  means  of 
very  short  notices  in  the  papers  of  all  kinds,  which  will,  taken 
together,  give  the  public  a  hint  how  the  malicious  gossip  arose 
that  may  be  already  circulating  about  me,  thanks  to  the  plots 
of  people  of  damaged  reputation  banded  together.  I  have 
powerful  enemies  to  fight.  I  think  these  hints  will  be  enough 
fcr  you,  and  that  you  will  do  all  you  can  for  me. 


PARIS,  October  5,  1854. 
To  Julius  Campe : 

"  The  Gods  in  Exile  "  was  a  great  book  entirely  finished  in 
my  head  ;  but  I  did  not  write  it,  because  my  respected  pub- 
lisher disgusted  me  with  writing,  and  I  gave  a  part  of  it  to  the 
Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  under  the  pressure  of  necessity  ; 
for  a  long  poem  that  I  had  promised  you  could  not  be  finished 


360  The  ec  Confessions. ' ' 

so  soon.     I  am  very  ill,  and  so  overwhelmed  with  work  that 
I  need  encouragement  from  you,  rather  than  opposition. 


How  hard  it  is  to  understand  Hegel's  writings,  how  easily 
one  may  deceive  himself,  and  think  he  understands  while  he 
only  learns  to  pile  up  dialectic  formulas,  I  first  found  out 
when  I  undertook  to  translate  these  formulas  out  of  the  idiom 
of  the  schools  into  the  mother  tongue  of  sound  reason  and  com- 
mon intelligibility — into  French.  In  this  case  the  interpreter 
must  know  exactly  what  he  wants  to  say  ;  and  the  most  modest 
idea  is  forced  to  drop  all  mystical  drapery,  and  show  itself  in 
its  nakedness.  I  had  formed  a  plan  of  making  a  generally 
intelligible  exposition  of  the  whole  Hegelian  philosophy,  in 
order  to  add  it  as  a  sequel  to  a  new  edition  of  my  book  "  De 
I'Allemagne."  I  busied  myself  for  two  years  with  this  work, 
and  had  the  greatest  difficulty  and  trouble  in  mastering  the  dry 
stuff,  and  setting  forth  the  most  mystical  parts  in  as  popular 
a  form  as  I  could.  But  when  the  work  was  at  last  ready  the 
manuscript  seemed  to  look  at  me  with  strange,  ironical,  really 
malicious  eyes.  I  was  fallen  into  a  strange  dilemma  ;  the 
author  and  his  work  were  no  longer  agreed.  For  the  aversion 
to  atheism  of  which  I  have  already  spoken  had  got  full  posses- 
sion of  my  mind  ;  and  as  I  was  forced  to  acknowledge  that  the 
Hegelian  philosophy  was  an  ally  of  all  impiety,  it  was  unpleas- 
ant and  odious  to  me. 

The  expense  of  playing  a  god,  who  has  nothing  mean  about 
him,  and  spares  neither  pains  nor  money,  is  enormous  ;  and 
to  play  the  part  decently  two  things  are  necessary,  plenty  of 
money  and  plenty  of  health. 

Unluckily  it  happened  that,  one  day  in  February,  1848, 
I  found  myself  without  either  ;  and  my  godship  came  to  an 
end.  Luckily  the  worthy  public  was  then  busy  with  such 
a  great,  unheard  of,  fabulous  comedy  that  the  change  in  my 
little  personality  passed  unnoticed.  They  were  indeed  unheard 
of  and  fabulous,  the  doings  of  those  February  days,  when  the 
wisdom  of  the  wisest  was  put  to  shame,  and  the  elect  of  the 
foolish  were  borne  aloft  on  shields.  The  last  were  the  first,  the 
lowest  became  the  highest,  things  and  ideas  were  overturned, 
and  the  world  was  fairly  turned  upside  down.  Had  I  been 
a  wise  man  in  those  unthinking,  head  over  heels  days,  I  should 
certainly  have  lost  my  reason  ;  but,  afflicted  as  I  was,  the  oppo- 


Hegelian  'Philosophy.  361 

site  was  the  case ;  and,  strange  to  say,  precisely  in  those  days 
of  general  folly  I  recovered  my  senses  !  Like  many  other 
overturned  gods  of  that  topsy-turvy  period,  I  had  to  painfully 
abdicate  and  go  back  to  a  private  station.  It  was  the  wisest 
thing  I  could  do.  I  crept  back  into  the  fold  of  God's  creatures, 
bowing  again  to  the  might  of  a  great  being  who  directs  the 
events  of  this  world,  and  who  must  rule  my  affairs  in  future. 
They  had  got  greatly  entangled  during  the  time  while  I  had 
been  my  own  Providence  ;  and  I  was  glad  to  hand  them  over 
to  a  heavenly  steward,  whose  omniscience  could  manage 
them  far  better.  The  existence  of  a  God  was  henceforward 
not  only  a  fountain  of  health  to  me,  but  relieved  me  of  all 
the  problems  that  had  been  so  odious  to  me,  and  proved  a 
great  economy. 

I  need  not  now  think  about  myself  or  others  ;  and  since 
I  have  become  one  of  the  pious  I  hardly  give  anything  for  the 
support  of  the  needy  ;  I  am  too  modest  to  meddle,  as  I  used, 
with  God's  providence  ;  I  am  no  longer  a  parish  relieving 
officer,  no  aper  of  God  ;  and  I  have  informed  my  former 
pensioners  with  pious  humility  that  I  am  a  poor  creature  pass- 
ing my  days  in  sighing,  having  no  longer  any  concern  with 
governing  the  world,  and  that  for  the  future  they  must  turn  to 
the  Lord  God  in  want  and  affliction. 

From  the  above  confession  the  gracious  reader  will  easily 
understand  why  my  work  on  the  Hegelian  philosophy  no 
longer  pleased  me.  I  saw  that  to  print  it  would  be  wholesome 
for  neither  author  nor  public  ;  I  saw  that  the  thinnest  gruel  of 
Christian  charity  would  be  more  refreshing  to  starving  mankind 
than  the  boiled  cobwebs  of  Hegelian  dialectics.  I  will  confess 
all  ;  I  grew  all  of  a  sudden  terribly  afraid  of  the  eternal  fires — 
it  is,  to  be  sure,  a  superstition,  but  I  was  frightened — and  one 
quiet  winter  evening,  when  a  bright  fire  was  burning  on  my 
hearth,  I  seized  on  the  good  chance,  and  threw  my  manuscript 
on  the  Hegelian  philosophy  into  the  blaze  ;  the  burning  leaves 
whirled  up  the  chimney  with  a  queer,  derisive  crackle. 

Thank  God,  I  had  got  rid  of  it  !  Ah,  if  I  could  destroy  in 
the  same  way  all  I  have  ever  printed  on  German  philosophy  ! 
I  owed  the  revival  of  my  religious  feeling  to  the  Bible,  that  holy 
book  ;  ana  \t  was  to  me  both  a  spring  of  health  and  an  object 
of  pious  wonder.  Curious  !  After  dragging  my  life  round 
through  all  the  dance  halls  of  philosophy,  giving  myself  up  to 
all  the  orgies  of  the  mind,  courting  all  possible  systems,  with- 
out finding  peace,  I  now  find  myself  at  the  same  point  where 


The  "  Confessions/' 


Uncle  Tom  stood,  on  the  Bible,  and  kneel  in  the  same  com- 
munion with  the  black  devotee.  .  . 

I  had  not  hitherto  especially  loved  Moses,  probably  because 
the  Hellenic  spirit  was  strong  in  me  ;  and  I  did  not  forgive  the 
Jewish  lawgiver  his  hatred  of  everything  pictorial  and  plastic. 
I  did  not  see  that  Moses,  in  spite  of  his  enmity  to  art,  was  him- 
self a  great  artist,  and  had  the  true  artistic  spirit.  Only,  this 
artistic  spirit  in  him,  as  in  his  Egyptian  countrymen,  was 
directed  solely  to  the  colossal  and  indestructible.  But  unlike 
the  Egyptians,  he  did  not  shape  his  works  of  art  out  of  brick 
and  granite,  but  built  human  pyramids  and  carved  human 
obelisks  ;  he  took  a  poor  race  of  hinds,  and  made  them  a  people 
that  could  defy  the  ages — a  great,  eternal,  holy  people,  a  people 
of  God,  that  should  serve  as  a  pattern  to  all  other  peoples,  a 
prototype  of  all  mankind — he  made  Israel !  With  more  reason 
than  the  Roman,  could  this  artist,  the  son  of  Amram  and 
Jochebed  the  midwife,  boast  of  raising  a  monument  that  should 
outlast  all  works  of  brass  ! 

I  have  never  spoken  with  proper  respect  of  the  workmaster, 
nor  of  his  work,  the  Jews — owing  again  to  my  Hellenic 
nature,  to  which  Jewish  asceticism  is  antipathetic.  My  preju- 
dice for  Greece  has  since  declined.  I  now  see  that  the  Greeks 
were  only  beautiful  boys,  while  the  Jews  were  always  men, 
strong,  unbending  men,  not  only  in  old  times  but  to-day,  in 
spite  of  eighteen  hundred  years  of  persecution  and  poverty  ; 
I  have  learned  to  appreciate  them  better  ;  and,  if  all  pride  of 
birth  were  not  in  foolish  contradiction  with  the  revolutionary 
struggle  and  its  democratic  principles,  the  writer  of  these  lines 
might  be  proud  that  his  ancestors  came  of  the  noble  house  of 
Israel,  that  he  is  a  descendant  of  the  martyrs  who  gave  a  God 
and  a  moral  code  to  the  world,  and  have  fought  and  suffered 
on  every  battlefield  of  thought. 

The  annals  of  the  Middle  Ages,  or  even  of  modern  times, 
rarely  set  down  in  their  daily  records  the  names  of  such 
champions  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  for  they  generally  fought  with 
closed  visors.  The  exploits  of  the  Jews  are  as  little  known  to 
the  world  as  their  private  circumstances.  People  think  they 
know  them  because  they  see  their  beards  ;  that  is  all  of  them 
that  is  to  be  seen,  and  they  are  in  these  days  the  same  wander- 
ing mystery  that  they  were  in  the  Middle  Ages.  It  may  be 
revealed  in  the  day  foretold  by  the  prophet  that  they  will  give 
something  more  than  a  shepherd  and  his  flock,  and  the  just 


His  Creed.  363 

one  who  suffered  to  save  mankind  will  receive  his  glorious 
recompense. 

You  see  I,  who  used  to  quote  Homer,  now  quote  the  Bible, 
like  Uncle  Tom.  Truly  I  owe  much  to  it.  It  revived  in  me, 
as  I  have  said,  the  sentiment  of  religion ;  and  this  second 
birth  of  religious  sentiment  helped  the  poet,  who  can,  far  more 
easily  than  other  mortals,  do  without  positive  dogmas  of  faith. 
He  feels  the  grace,  and  his  soul  opens  itself  to  the  symbols  of 
heaven  and  earth  without  the  need  of  any  church  key.  The 
most  foolish  and  contradictory  reports  have  been  circulated 
about  me  on  this  subject.  Very  pious  but  not  very  wise  men 
of  Protestant  Germany  have  anxiously  asked  me  whether,  now 
that  I  am  ill  and  a  believer,  I  am  more  in  sympathy  with  the 
evangelical  Lutheran  belief,  which  I  have  hitherto  professed 
only  in  a  lukewarm,  formal  way.  No,  my  dear  friends,  I  have 
not  changed  in  this  respect ;  if  I  still  keep  my  connection 
with  the  evangelical  faith  it  is  because  I  do  not  now  feel  at  all 
fettered  by  it,  and,  indeed,  never  did  feel  much  so.  To  be 
sure,  and  I  confess  it  openly,  if  I  were  in  Prussia  and,  above 
all,  in  Berlin,  I  would,  like  many  of  my  friends,  hr.ve  gladly 
cast  off  the  ties  of  any  Church,  if  the  government  did  not 
forbid  anyone  to  reside  in  Prussia,  and  especially  in  Berlin, 
who  does  not  belong  to  some  one  of  the  positive  religions 
patronized  by  the  state. 

Now  that  many  changes  have  come  over  me,  through  a  new 
awakening  of  religious  feeling  and  through  bodily  suffering, 
does  the  uniform  of  the  Lutheran  faith  correspond  with  my 
inmost  feelings  ?  How  far  does  official  recognition  represent 
the  truth  ?  I  will  not  give  any  direct  answer  to  these  ques- 
tions ;  but  they  afford  me  the  occasion  of  inquiring  into  the 
good  service  that  Protestantism  has  done  the  world,  according 
to  my  present  belief,  from  which  it  can  be  judged  how  far  it 
has  won  my  sympathy. 

In  my  early  days,  when  philosophy  had  an  overpowering 
interest  for  me,  I  appreciated  the  value  of  Protestantism  only 
for  its  conquest  of  the  right  of  free  thought,  which  was  the 
ground  that  Leibnitz,  Kant,  and  Hegel  were  later  able  to  take, 
Luther,  that  strong  ax-man,  having  preceded  these  warriors 
and  cleared  the  way  for  them.  In  this  light  I  prized  the 
Reformation  as  the  origin  of  German  philosophy,  and  justified 
my  combative  championship  of  Protestantism.  Now,  in  my 
later  and  riper  days,  when  my  religious  feeling  has  been  roused 


364  The  ff  Confessions." 

in  overwhelming  force,  and  the  shipwrecked  metaphysician 
clings  fast  to  the  Bible,  I  prize  Protestantism  most  especially 
for  its  services  in  discovering  and  spreading  the  holy  book. 

I  abandon  the  sea  of  general  religious-moral-historical  specu- 
lation, and  once  more  steer  the  vessel  of  my  thoughts  peace- 
fully on  the  still  inland  waters  that  so  truly  reflect  the  image 
of  the  Creator. 

I  have  already  mentioned  how  Protestant  voices  from  home 
have  made  indiscreet  inquiries  as  to  the  change  in  me,  as  if, 
with  renewed  religious  feelings,  my  taste  for  the  Church  had 
grown  stronger.  I  do  not  know  how  far  I  have  made  it  clear 
that  I  have  no  particular  fondness  for  any  particular  dogma  or 
form  of  worship  ;  and  in  this  respect  I  remain  as  I  have  always 
been.  I  make  this  confession  also  in  order  to  point  out  to 
certain  friends,  who  are  zealous  Roman  Catholics,  the  mistake 
into  which  they  have  fallen  as  to  my  present  way  of  thinking. 
Curious  !  At  the  same  time  that  in  Germany  Protestantism 
pays  me  the  undeserved  honor  of  an  evangelical  revelation, 
the  report  is  spread  that  I  have  gone  over  to  the  Catholic 
faith,  and  many  good  souls  declare  that  the  conversion  took 
place  years  ago,  and  fortify  their  story  with  exact  details,  give 
the  time  and  place,  the  very  day,  name  the  church  in  which  I 
foreswore  the  heresies  of  Protestantism  and  declared  my  belief 
in  the  one  holy  Roman  Catholic  Church  ;  the  only  information 
wanting  is  the  number  of  times  the  sacristan  rang  the  bells  for 
the  solemnity. 

I  see  from  the  papers  and  letters  I  receive  what  consistency 
the  report  has  gained,  and  I  am  almost  painfully  embarrassed 
at  the  truly  affectionate  joy  expressed  in  many  of  these  writings. 
Travelers  inform  me  that  the  rescue  of  my  soul  affords  material 
for  pulpit  eloquence.  .  .  Young  Catholic  ecclesiastics  desire 
to  place  their  first  homiletic  fruits  under  my  patronage.  I  am 
looked  upon  as  a  future  light  of  the  Church.  I  cannot  laugh 
at  this,  for  the  pious  error  is  honestly  entertained,  and  what- 
ever may  be  said  against  Catholic  zealots,  one  thing  is  cer- 
tain, they  are  no  egotists ;  they  look  after  their  neighbors, 
often  a  little  too  much,  unfortunately.  I  cannot  attribute  the 
report  to  any  ill  will,  but  simply  to  a  mistake.  Innocent  cir- 
cumstances have  been  accidentally  misrepresented.  The 
statement  of  time  and  place  is  certainly  correct.  I  was,  in 
truth,  on  the  said  day  in  the  said  church,  which  was  once  a 
Jesuit  church,  namely,  Saint  Sulpice,  and  there  I  did  go 
through  a  religious  ceremony.  But  it  was  no  hateful  abjura- 


His  {Marriage.  365 


tion,  but  a  very  harmless  conjunction,  for  after  a  civil  ceremony 
I  had  my  marriage  with  my  wife  blessed  by  the  Church,  as  my 
wife,  coming  of  a  strong  Catholic  family,  would  not  have 
thought  herself  married  in  the  sight  of  God  without  such  a  cele- 
bration. And  I  would  not  have  given  the  dear  creature  any 
distress  or  uneasiness  in  the  religious  views  in  which  she  was 
born. 

Unbelief  is  always  perilous  in  marriage  ;  and,  however  free- 
thinking  I  may  be,  no  light  word  was  ever  permitted  in  my 
house.  I  was  living  like  a  worthy  citizen  in  Paris,  and  when 
I  married  I  choose  to  be  united  by  the  Church,  although  in 
this  country  a  legal  civil  marriage  is  well  enough  recognized. 
My  liberal  friends  found  fault  with  me,  and  overwhelmed  me 
with  reproaches,  as  having  conceded  too  much  to  clericalism. 
Their  vexation  at  my  weakness  would  have  been  much 
greater  had  they  known  how  much  greater  concessions  I  was 
making  to  the  detested  priestcraft.  As  a  Protestant  marrying 
a  Catholic,  in  order  to  be  blessed  by  a  Catholic  priest  in 
church,  I  had  to  get  a  special  dispensation  from  the  arch- 
bishop, who  gives  it  only  on  condition  that  the  bridegroom 
binds  himself  in  writing  to  allow  any  children  he  may  have  to 
be  brought  up  in  their  mother's  religion.  There  is  another 
side  to  the  question  ;  and  however  much  the  Protestant  world 
may  exclaim  against  such  a  restriction,  I  think  the  Catholic 
priesthood  quite  in  the  right :  for  whoever  asks  for  the  guar- 
antee of  their  blessing  must  accept  their  conditions.  I 
accepted  them  quite  de  bonne  foi,  and  should  certainly  have 
kept  my  agreement. 

I  will  complete  my  confession  by  acknowledging  that,  to 
obtain  the  archbishop's  license,  I  would  have  joined  not  only 
my  children  but  even  myself  to  the  Catholic  Church.  But  the 
Ogre  de  Rome,  who,  like  the  monster  in  the  fairy  tale, 
claims  the  future  children  in  return  for  his  service,  was  satis- 
fied  with  the  poor  children,  who  were  never  born,  and  I  remain 
a  Protestant  as  before — a  protesting  Protestant,  and  I  protest 
against  stories  which,  although  not  slanderous,  might  be  used 
to  the  injury  of  my  good  name. 

There  can  be  no  suspicion  in  my  case  of  a  fanatical  hatred 
of  the  Romish  Church,  as  I  was  never  narrow  enough  for  such 
animosity.  I  know  my  mental  caliber  too  well  not  to  know 
that  I  could  do  little  harm  to  such  a  colossus  as  the  Church  of 
Peter  by  the  most  violent  attack  ;  I  could  never  be  more  than 
a  modest  laborer  in  carrying  off  its  stones,  which  might  well 


The  "  Confessions. " 


be  a  work  of  several  centuries.  I  am  too  well  read  in  history 
not  to  recognize  the  gigantic  size  of  the  granite  structure  ;  it 
may  be  the  Bastille  of  thought,  and  be  now  defended  only  by 
Invalids  ;  but  it  is  none  the  less  true  that  this  Bastille  also 
will  be  no  easy  thing  to  take,  and  many  a  youth  of  the  storm- 
ing  party  will  break  his  neck  on  its  walls.  As  a  thinker,  as 
a  metaphysician,  I  must  admire  the  consistency  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  dogma ;  and  I  can  boast  of  having  attacked  neither 
its  dogma  nor  its  rites  with  wit  or  raillery  ;  and  men  do  me 
too  much  and  too  little  honor  by  saying  that  in  mind  I  am 
related  to  Voltaire.  I  have  ever  been  a  poet,  and  as  such 
have  been  more  struck  than  others  by  the  poetry  that  blossoms 
and  shines  in  the  symbolism  of  the  Catholic  dogma ;  in  my 
youth  I  was  overwhelmed  by  the  immeasurable  sweetness,  the 
secret  and  holy  exuberance,  and  the  terrible  deadly  joy  of  that 
poetry  ;  I,  too,  have  adored  the  blessed  Queen  of  Heaven,  and 
have  celebrated  in  elegant  verses  her  grace  and  goodness  ; 
and  my  first  collection  of  poems  bears  traces  of  that  fair 
Madonna  period,  which  I  expunged  from  later  collections  with 
ludicrous  care. 

The  time  for  vanity  has  passed,  and  I  give  everyone  leave 
to  smile  at  this  confession. 


I  have  done  nothing  in  this  fair  world,  I  have  amounted  to 
nothing,  as  people  say — nothing  but  a  poet. 

But  I  would  not  undervalue  that  name  from  hypocritical 
humility.  A  man  is  a  great  deal  if  he  is  a  poet — especially  if 
he  is  a  great  lyric  poet  in  Germany,  among  a  people  who  have 
surpassed  all  other  nations  in  two  things,  philosophy  and 
song.  I  will  not  belittle  my  fame  as  a  poet  with  the  false 
modesty  invented  by  scamps.  Not  one  of  my  countrymen  has 
won  his  laurels  so  young  as  I  ;  and  if  my  fellow-poet  Wolf- 
gang Goethe  complacently  sings  "  that  the  Chinese  paint 
Werther  and  Charlotte  on  glass  with  trembling  hands,"  so  can 
I,  if  boasting  is  in  order,  point  to  something  more  fabulous 
than  a  Chinese  reputation,  and  that  is  a  Japanese  one.  Some 
twelve  years  ago  I  was  visiting  my  friend  H.  Wohrman  of 
Riga  at  the  Hotel  des  Princes  here,  and  he  presented  me  to 
a  Dutchman  who  had  just  come  from  Japan,  had  passed  thirty 
years  at  Nagasaki,  and  was  very  curious  to  make  my  acquaint- 
ance. This  was  Dr.  Burger,  who  is  now  publishing  at  Ley- 


Japanese  Imputation.  367 


den,  with  the  learned  Seybold,  the  great  work  of  Japan.  The 
Dutchman  told  me  that  he  had  taught  German  to  a  young 
Japanese,  who  afterward  printed  a  Japanese  translation  of  my 
songs,  and  that  this  was  the  first  European  book  that 
appeared  in  the  Japanese  language,  and  that  I  should  find 
a  long  article  on  this  translation  in  the  English  Calcutta 
Review.  I  applied  at  several  circulating  libraries,  but  none  of 
the  learned  ladies  who  presided  over  them  could  give  me  the 
Review  ;  and  I  sought  it  in  vain  from  Julien  and  Panthier. 

Since  that  I  have  made  no  more  inquiries  about  my  Japan- 
ese reputation.  I  care  for  it  now  as  little  as  for  fame  in  Fin- 
land. Ah  !  fame  in  general,  that  toy  once  so  sweet,  sweet  as 
pineapples  or  flattery,  has  long  grown  distasteful  to  me  ;  it  is 
now  bitter  as  wormwood.  Like  Romeo,  I  may  say,  "  I  a*m 
fortune's  fool."  I  have  a  big  plate  of  pudding  before  me,  but 
no  spoon.  What  good  does  it  do  me  that  my  health  is  drunk 
at  feasts  out  of  golden  cups  of  the  choicest  wine,  while  I,  cut 
off  from  all  joy  of  the  world,  must  wet  my  lips  with  a  cup  of 
herb  tea  !  What  good  does  it  do  me  that  bright  youths  and 
maidens  crown  my  marble  bust  with  laurels,  if  an  old  nurse 
with  withered  hands  is  putting  on  my  real  head,  behind  the  ears, 
a  blister  of  Spanish  flies  !  What  good  does  it  do  me  that  all 
the  roses  of  Shiraz  bloom  and  smell  so  sweetly  for  me  —  alas  ! 
Shiraz  is  two  thousand  miles  from  the  Rue  d'Amsterdam, 
where  I  smell  nothing  in  the  terrible  solitude  of  my  sick 
chamber  but  the  odor  of  warm  towels.  Ah  !  the  mocking  of 
God  is  heavy  upon  me.  The  great  Creator  of  the  universe, 
the  Aristophanes  of  heaven,  wanted  to  show  clearly  to  the 
little  earthly  so-called  German  Aristophanes  that  his  sharpest 
sarcasms  are  poor  fooleries  compared  with  his,  and  how  sadly 
I  fall  behind  him  in  humor  and  colossal  jest. 

Yes,  the  sarcasm  of  the  derision  that  the  Master  pours  upon 
me  is  terrific,  and  his  jokes  are  terribly  cruel.  I  humbly 
acknowledge  his  superiority,  and  bow  myself  in  the  dust 
before  him.  But  if  I  have  no  such  supreme  creative  power, 
the  light  of  eternal  reason  illumines  my  mind,  and  I  may 
bring  God's  jests  into  its  forum  and  reverently  criticise  them. 
So  I  venture  to  submit  the  respectful  remark,  that  it  seems  to 
me  this  terrible  jest  with  which  he  visits  the  poor  scholar  is 
drawn  out  somewhat  too  long  ;  it  has  lasted  over  six  years, 
which  is  a  little  tedious.  And  I  may  observe  with  all  defer- 
ence that  the  jest  is  not  a  new  one,  and  that  the  great  Aris- 
tophanes of  heaven  has  already  used  it  on  other  occasions, 


368  The  "  Confessions. ' ' 

and  so  has  plagiarized  from  himself.  I  will  cite  a  portion 
of  the  Limburg  chronicle  in  support  of  this  remark.  This 
chronicle  is  interesting  to  those  who  would  inform  themselves 
of  the  usages  and  customs  of  the  Middle  Ages.  It  describes 
like  a  fashion  journal  the  forms  of  dress,  both  for  men  and 
women,  that  prevailed  at  the  time.  It  also  gives  information 
about  the  songs  that  were  sung  and  whistled  in  each  year,  with 
the  opening  lines  of  many  favorite  songs  of  the  time.  So  we 
learn  that  in  1480,  throughout  all  Germany,  songs  were 
sung  and  whistled  that  were  sweeter  and  lovelier  than  any 
ever  heard  before  in  the  German  land.  But,  says  the  chronicle, 
a  young  priest  had  written  these  songs  who  had  a  leprosy,  and 
had  withdrawn  himself  from  all  the  world  into  the  desert. 
You  know,  dear  reader,  what  a  terrible  malady  this  leprosy 
was  in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  h'ow  those  who  were  afflicted 
with  the  disease  were  thrust  out  from  all  intercourse  with 
their  fellow-burghers,  and  dared  not  approach  any  living  man. 
As  long  as  they  lived  they  wandered  about,  wrapped  from 
head  to.  foot,  a  hood  over  their  faces,  and  carrying  in  their 
hands  a  rattle,  called  a  Lazarus  rattle,  with  which  they  gave 
warning  of  their  approach,  so  that  all  might  draw  aside  from 
the  way.  The  poor  priest,  of  whose  fame  as  a  song  writer 
the  aforesaid  Limburg  chronicle  speaks,  was  such  a  leper  ; 
and  he  sat  sadly  in  the  solitude  of  his  misery,  while  all 
Germany  sang  and  whistled  his  songs  with  shouts  and  glee  ! 
Ah,  his  fame  was  the  mockery  so  well  known  to  me — that  jest 
of  God  which  is  still  the  same,  though  it  was  then  clothed  in 
the  costume  of  the  Middle  Ages.  The  blase  king  of  Judaea 
said  truly,  "  There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun."  Perhaps 
the  sun  itself  is  an  old  joke  warmed  over,  and  now  shining  so 
imposingly  tricked  out  with  new  beams  ! 

Often  in  my  sad  visions  of  the  night  I  think  I  see  before  me 
the  poor  priest  of  the  Limburg  chronicle,  my  brother  in 
Apollo,  and  his  suffering  eyes  glare  strangely  from  beneath 
his  hood  ;  but  in  a  moment  he  glides  away — and,  like  the  echo 
of  a  dream,  I  hear  the  sharp  tones  of  the  Lazarus  rattle. 


CHAPTER    V. 
ffrom  tbe  /Rattre06*(5rave. 

THE  children  of  fortune  I  envy  not 

The  joyous  life  they  spend  ; 
I  envy  them  only  the  death  they  die, 

Their  painless  and  sudden  end. 

In  garments  gay,  with  crowns  on  their  bro\vs, 

And  smiles  on  the  lips  of  all, 
Joyous  they  sit  at  the  banquet  of  life — 

Then  like  standing  grain  they  fall. 

No  weary  sickness  fades  their  charms, 

In  good  condition  they  die, 
And  Czarina  Proserpine  welcomes  them 

To  her  palace  right  joyously. 

How  must  I  envy  them  their  fate, 
Who  for  seven  years  have  been  lying 

And  rolling  in  torture  on  the  ground, 
And  cannot  succeed  in  dying  ! 

O  God  !  cut  short  my  torment  here  ; 

To  the  grave  I  fain  would  go  ; 
For  playing  the  martyr  I  never  had 

Any  talent,  as  well  you  know. 

At  your  inconsistency,  O  Lord, 

I  wonder — forgive  me,  pray — 
You  made  me  a  jolly  poet,  and  now 

You  take  my  spirits  away. 

Pain  has  damped  my  merry  mood, 

And  made  me  sad  and  glum  ; 
If  the  sorry  joke  does  not  come  to  an  end 

A  Catholic  I  shall  become. 

369 


37°  From  the  [Mattress-Grave. 

I  howl  till  your  ears  are  deaf  with  the  noise, 
As  any  good  Christian  may — 

O  miserere  !     It  is  all  up 

With  the  drollest  man  of  his  day ! 


THE  LOTUS. 

To  La  Mouche* 

Truly,  we  make  together 

A  comical  pair,  my  love  ; 
A  girl  who  can  hardly  stand  on  her  legs, 

A  lover  who  cannot  move. 

She  is  a  poor  little  kitten, 

And  he  is  sick  as  a  hound  : 
I  really  believe  the  brains  of  both 

Are  far  from  thoroughly  sound. 

A  blooming  lotus  flower 

She  fancies  she  may  be  ; 
And  he,  the  pale  faced  fellow, 

Vows  that  the  moon  is  he. 


Though  the  lotus  flower  its  blossom 
Spread  to  the  moonbeam's  ray, 

It  will  get,  instead  of  a  lover's  kiss, 
Only  this  poor  little  lay. 

*  "  La  Mouche"was  the  nickname  given  by  Heine  to  a  young  woman 
named  Camille  Selden,  from  the  seal  she  used  on  her  letters — a  fly.  Her 
early  history,  and  even  her  nationality,  are  unknown.  She  first  visited 
Heine  on  some  literary  pretext  in  October,  1855.  He  was  delighted  with 
her  brightness,  and  glad  to  speak  once  more  to  a  woman  in  his  native  lan- 
guage. They  began  a  flirtation  of  little  consequence,  except  that  it  greatly 
distressed  Heine's  faithful  wife  ;  and  to  the  day  of  his  death  she  visited  him 
constantly,  and  he  wrote  her  many  notes.  Count  Alton-Shee,  who  had 
chances  of  intimate  observation,  declares  that  Heine's  one  passionate  love 
was  for  his  wife.  "  La  Mouche  "  was  only  a  diversion  from  the  tedium  and 
pain  of  his  long  disease. 


Where?  371 

WHERE  ? 


Where  shall  he  of  travel  weary 
Find  his  resting  place  in  fine  ? 

In  the  South,  beneath  the  palm  trees  ? 
Under  lindens,  by  the  Rhine  ? 

Shall  I  in  some  barren  desert 

Find  a  grave  at  strangers'  hands  ? 

Or  sink  to  rest  upon  the  border 
Of  the  ocean,  in  the  sands  ? 

So  be  it  !     There  will  hang  above  me 
God's  own  heaven,  there  as  here  ; 

And  by  night  the  stars  will  flicker, 
Corpse-lights  dancing  o'er  my  bier. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
Hbe  Xast  UJears. 

PARIS,  October  5,  1854. 
To  Joseph  Lehmann  : 

My  works  in  French  are  to  be  issued  by  Michel  Levy  Freres, 
who  are  recommended  to  me  as  publishers.  I  had  the  choice 
between  them  and  another  publisher,  who  was  formerly  a 
bonnetier,  /'.  <?.,  a  maker  of  woolen  nightcaps  ;  and  I  gave  them 
the  preference,  perhaps  because  they  were  of  the  tribe  of 
Levi.  I  think  Herr  Levy  is  none  the  less  an  honorable  man, 
and  worthy  of  my  confidence  ;  and  I  of  all  others,  even  if  I 
err  to  my  cost,  ought  not  to  be  led  by  the  old  prejudice  against 
Jews.  I  believe  that,  if  you  let  them  make  money,  they  are 
at  least  grateful,  and  cheat  you  less  than  their  Christian  col- 
leagues. The  Jews  have  had  highly  civilized  hearts  in  an 
unbroken  tradition  for  two  thousand  years.  I  believe  they 
acquire  the  culture  of  Europe  so  quickly  because  they  have 
nothing  to  learn  in  the  matter  of  feeling,  and  need  to  gain 
only  the  knowledge.  But  you  know  all  this  better  than  I ; 
and  it  may  serve  you  only  as  a  hint  toward  understanding 
what  I  have  said  in  my  "Confessions." 

PARIS,, October  12,  1854. 
To  Julius  Campe  : 

You  are  quite  right  that  a  lodging  on^the  ground  floor  is 
not  good  for  me  ;  and  that  I  may  not  go  all  to  pieces  with 
cold  and  damp,  I  am  now  having  a  warmer  apartment  furnished 
in  the  Champs  Elysees,  which  1  shall  get  into  before  the  end 
of  the  month.  I  cannot  speak  from  an  inflammation  of  the 
throat.  Thank  God,  that  with  all  my  suffering  I  am  cheerful, 
and  bright  thoughts  are  running  through  my  brain.  My  fancy 
plays  me  delightful  tricks  and  comedies  in  my  sleepless  nights  ; 
and  my  wife  is  luckily  in  a  very  cheerful  mood. 

NOVEMBER  8. 

I  can  send  you  the  good  news  that,  day  before  yesterday 
afternoon,  I  got  into  my  new  quarters,  with  which  I  am  so  far 

37' 


<i/1  'Dittator.  373 

contented.  The  journey  was  long  and  tiresome,  as  I  had 
undergone  an  operation  a  few  days  before  ;  and  I  am  for  the 
moment  exhausted  and  weak  in  body. 


PARIS,  May  30,  1855. 

Though  sick  as  a  dog,  and  blinder  than  ever  (for  my  right 
eye  does  not  see  now),  I  write,  just  to  mention  that  I  am  still 
alive  and  fonder  of  you  than  ever. 

The  "  Lutetia "  has  done  extraordinarily  well  ;  all  Paris 
talked  of  the  book  for  a  month.  But  what  work  I  had  !  Sick 
unto  death,  and  in  spite  of  convulsions,  for  two  months  I 
worked  five  or  six  hours  daily  at  this  French  "  Lutetia,"  and 
yet  could  not  give  her  the  literary  polish  that  the  original 
has. 

NOVEMBER  i,  1855. 

I  have  delayed  writing,  because  I  have  expected  my  sister 
every  day  for  months,  accompanied  by  my  brother,  who  meant 
to  come  with  her  from  Vienna  by  Hamburg  for  the  exhibition. 
If  she  has  not  started  she  will  certainly  send  to  you  for  any 
message  for  me. 

I  will  talk  seriously  with  Gustav,  and  that  is  better  than  any 
letters  ;  and  I  shall  tell  him  he  must  make  more  account  than 
he  has  of  your  friendship  for  me,  and  the  price  I  set  upon  it. 
I  am  glad  to  see  him  on  several  grounds  ;  I  am  still  critically 
ill,  and  need  loving  consolation.  Unfortunately,  the  trouble 
is  that,  at  this  moment  I  can  work  cursed  little  ;  and  this 
year  there  will  be  a  deficit  of  some  fifteen  thousand  francs, 
through  unsuccessful  attempts  at  a  cure. 


PARIS,  August  2,  1855. 
To  Alexandre  Dumas : 

I  am  still  in  the  same  state  ;  the  pain  in  my  chest  is  the 
same  as  ever,  and  prevents  my  dictating  much  at  a  time. 
The  word  "  dictate  "  reminds  me  of  my  stupid  Bavarian  servant 
in  Munich.  He  had  noticed  that  I  often  dictated  for  a  whole 
day  ;  and  when  one  of  his  worthy  countrymen  asked  him  what 
my  business  was,  he  answered,  "  My  master  is  a  dictator  !  " 

Adieu  ;  I  must  now  lay  down  my  dictatorship,  and  hasten  to 
send  you  a  thousand  friendly  greetings. 


374  The  Last  Years. 


To"  La  Mouche"  : 

I  am  heartily  sorry  to  have  seen  so  little  of  you  lately.  You 
left  a  very  pleasant  impression  on  me,  and  I  feel  a  great  desire 
to  see  you  again.  Come  any  time  after  to-day  if  you  can  ; 
come  as  soon  as  possible  at  any  rate.  I  am  ready  to  receive 
you  at  any  hour ;  but  it  would  suit  me  best  from  four  o'clock 
to — as  late  as  you  please. 

I  write  to  you  myself,  in  spite  of  my  bad  eyes,  and  in  fact 
because  I  have  no  secretary  for  the  moment  whom  I  can 
trust.  My  ears  are  deafened  with  all  sorts  of  horrid  noises, 
and  I  have  been  all  the  time  in  great  pain. 

I  do  not  know  why  your  kind  sympathy  does  me  so  much 
good.  Superstitious  creature  that  I  am,  I  fancy  that  a  good 
fairy  has  come  to  me  in  my  hour  of  trouble.  No — if  it  had 
been  a  good  fairy,  the  hour  would  have  been  one  of  happi- 
ness. Or  are  you  a  bad  fairy  ?  I  must  know  this  soon. 


My  good,  charming,  sweet  Mouche,  come  and  buzz  round 
my  nose  with  your  little  wings  !  I  know  a  song  of  Men- 
delssohn's with  the  refrain,  "  Come  soon  ! "  The  tune  is  con- 
tinually running  through  my  head  :  "  Come  soon  !  " 

I  kiss  both  your  dear  little  hands — not  at  once,  but  one 
after  the  other. 


I  have  a  great  longing  to  see  you  again,  last  flower  of  my 
sad  autumn — my  mad  darling. 

I  thank  you  for  the  times  so  sweet  to  my  heart — am  glad 
you  are  well — unhappily  I  am  very  ill,  weak,  and  cross,  often 
moved  to  tears  at  the  most  trifling  trick  of  fortune.  A  sick 
man  is  always  a  ganache.  1  do  not  like  to  be  seen  in  such  a 
state  ;  but  I  must  hear  my  dear  Mouche  hum. 

Come  soon — as  soon  as  your  Excellency  pleases — as  soon  as 
possible — come,  my  dear,  sweet  Swabia-face.  I  have  scribbled 
down  the  poem — real  crazy  poetry — a  mad  man  to  a  mad  girl. 


JANUARY  i,  1856. 

I  am  suffering  a  great  deal,  and  deadly  cross.  My  right 
eyelid  droops,  and  I  can  hardly  write  now.  But  I  love  you 
dearly,  and  think  of  you,  sweetest !  The  novel  did  not  bore 


Farewell.  375 

me,  and  gives  good  hopes  for  the  future  ;  you  are  not  so 
stupid  as  you  look  !  You  are  nice  beyond  all  measure,  and  my 
heart  rejoices  at  it.  Shall  I  see  you  to-morrow  ?  A  terrible 
depression  has  come  over  me.  My  heart  yawns  spasmodically. 
These  baillements  are  unbearable.  I  wish  I  were  dead. 
Deepest  woe,  thy  name  is 

H.  HEINE. 


Middle  of  JANUARY,  1856. 

I  have  my  headache  still,  which  will  probably  last  till  to-mor- 
row ;  so  I  cannot  see  my  dearest  till  the  day  after.  What  a 
vexation  !  I  am  so  ill  !  "  My  brain  is  full  of  madness  and 
my  heart  is  full  of  sorrow."  Never  was  a  poet  more  wretched, 
in  the  fullness  of  fortune,  which  seems  to  mock  him  !  Farewell. 


[Heine  died  on  the  i6th  of  February,  1856.] 


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